A World Torn Asunder
by Author of Ice and Fire
Summary: Alduin attacked Helgen, as is known. But something went wrong; the Dragonborn, saviour of Tamriel, died in the assault. With no blessed champion to save them, who will defeat the World-Eater? There are no heroes to be found in Skyrim; it's everyday citizens must bear the burden of the world's fate, no matter if they crumble from its weight.
1. Dusk of the Dragonborn

**_Hello, everyone!_**

 ** _This will be my second published story on fanfiction. Though my first one is still ongoing, I've seen many people successfully balance two fics, and I'm hoping I'll be able to do the same. Besides, I'm on vacation, and have no access to the documents for my other story, but I had to write, so, behold, the product. I've been meaning to write something Skyrim-y for a while anyways, since the game is utterly fantastic._**

 ** _This story, while operating in the same Skyrim universe we all know and love, won't quite follow the usual gameplay due to the differences in my story (i.e. the lack of a Dragonborn). I'm also planning on using almost only canon characters, however, I'm using my own modded version of the game for a base, so you might see some characters that aren't in the vanilla version._**

 ** _Anywho, this is getting far too long for an introductory A/N, so I'll let you have at it, beginning in good old fashion Helgen. You've seen it before, you'll likely see it again, but I always find it's a great jumping off point for any Skyrim story. So thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy._**

* * *

 **Dusk of the Dragonborn**

This week was decidedly not one of Ralof's better weeks.

The ambush. Fighting tooth and nail in an unbalanced skirmish that had quickly dissolved into a merciless beating. Being hogtied and hauled into rickety carts, stripped of all rights. The long, rough ride from Darkwater Crossing, devoid of both food and water. Turning towards Helgen instead of Cyrodiil, and discovering their sentence was not public humiliation, but public execution. The outrage of seeing his leader, his _king_ bound and gagged and spat upon by the insolent invaders of Skyrim as though it were _he_ who was the criminal.

But the insult to the injury, the salt in the wound, the cherry on top of this pile of shit, was coming face to face with the man before him.

Ralof's fists clenched, eyes sparking with anger. In all their days of travelling, he had not once spotted this man amongst the throngs of Stormcloak prisoners and Imperial dogs. There had been many in their party, but not enough to hide a man forever, unless he was actively seeking concealment.

From the discomfort now hanging thick in the air, Ralof assumed this was the case. His eyes narrowed coldly at the man across from him, who dared to display a fleeting expression of guilt across his weather-worn face.

 _Enough of the lies, Hadvar. You're no sorrier to see me go than the day I left for Windhelm. Go on, do your duty like the puppet you are. Bastard._

Brown eyes hardened; quivering lips stilled. As though Hadvar could hear his old-friend-turned-enemy's thoughts, he grimaced and gritted out, "Ralof. Of Riverwood."

The last part was tacked on with even more disgust, as though he was loathe to remind himself of the hometown they'd once shared. Ralof hoped the thought made him squirm.

 _Remember it all? Remember the day you first arrived in Riverwood, a fresh orphan still sobbing for your parents, and I stole a sweetroll from the Sleeping Giant to cheer you up? Remember the time I accidentally dropped your uncle's best blade in the forge, and you took the fall for me? Remember all those afternoons we spent by the river, talking or playing or simply watching the clouds, together?_

He held Hadvar's gaze as he moved to the new line of prisoners; the uneasiness behind angry eyes told him the boy he'd once known did, in fact, remember.

 _Good. I hope those thoughts haunt you to the end of your days._

If this was the old Hadvar, they would have. The old Hadvar had always been a gentle lad, too kind and complacent for his own good. He'd grow faint at so much as the scent of blood; it had been a shock to the whole village when he'd announced his desire to join the Imperial army.

As Ralof watched, Hadvar called Lokir's name, and the skittish thief ran, earning three arrows in his back while Hadvar looked on, unflinching. Well, if it hadn't been clear already, it was now; the boy he'd known was dead. The man he dealt with now was new Hadvar.

Ralof hated new Hadvar.

"H-Horrible, isn't it?" a quiet voice murmured beside him.

Ralof turned his head slightly to acknowledge the other prisoner he'd grown to know on the ride to Helgen. An Imperial of small and slight stature, Leander Neleus looked more boy than man. A fact that went unaided by his pale face and wide eyes as he took in the corpse of the horse thief.

"If he just hadn't run." The Imperial swallowed, unable to tear his gaze from Lokir's prostrate form. "He, he could have—"

"Wound up here like the rest of us, getting a nice beheading instead of an old arrow in the back," Vidran growled, rolling his eyes.

Leander shied away from the taller Nord and shuffled closer to Ralof, who couldn't blame him. Fellow prisoner or no, Stormcloaks weren't the best of company if you were an Imperial, no matter where your allegiance lay. But Ralof had spent a few good days getting to know Leander and had been graced with nothing but courtesy and civility, as well as somewhat frantic affirmations that the man was decidedly neutral when it came to Skyrim's civil war. It had been impossible to hold an unfounded grudge against the stranger for long.

Besides, something about Leander had warmed Ralof to him almost immediately. With his kind, albeit meek attitude, the man almost reminded Ralof of a younger . . .

No. That was not a thought worth completing.

" _Ulfric_. _Stormcloak_."

The words were spat with such acerbity, spite pouring from each syllable, that Ralof immediately whipped around. The burning fury in his heart had instantly rekindled; who dared to speak the name of his king as though it were an insult?

Ah, of course. He scowled, as did his Stormcloak companions, as General Tullius faced off with their great leader. One man adorned in the finest golden armour, the other with ropes at his wrists and a rag in his mouth, yet it was Ulfric who held his head higher on this morning. Tullius wasn't capable of such dignity—or tall stature.

Mocking laughter coursed through the Stormcloak ranks as Tullius glared up at Ulfric, unable to meet the eye of the towering Nord. "Tell me, _Jarl of Windhelm_ , did your word mean nothing when you first swore fealty to the High King, or was it only of late that you became so despicable?"

A few of the most hot-headed Stormcloaks, Ralof and Vidran among them, let loose a stream of curses at the insult to their king's honour, only to quickly be silenced by the surrounding Imperial guards.

Ralof coughed and spat out a wad of blood and spittle, glaring at the nearest Empire-loving dog, who was massaging his knuckles after hard contact with Ralof's jaw. Leander looked on, shocked and scared, growing only more so as Ralof began to chuckle quietly under his breath. Whether the blow had knocked the sense from his head, or gallows humour was truly at work, he could not help but be amused by the sight of Tullius so resentful of his taller prisoner.

"Some here in Helgen call you a hero." Tullius sneered, still trying to make eye contact with Ulfric, who refused to look down. "But would a hero permit the murder of innocents, betray his country, and blow his king to pieces?"

From the houses surrounding the executioner's block, many cries of "Nay!" rose up as Helgen's people thrust their fists in the air. Equally emphatic was the Stormcloaks' decrying of Tullius's words, the voices of Vidran and Ralof strong among them.

Tullius glowered at Ulfric; the latter had yet to even acknowledge the former's presence. Vidran guffawed loudly, elbowing Leander out of the way to nudge Ralof playfully. "Would you look at that?" he teased, not bothering to whisper. "Someone ought to get the poor general a stool."

That earned him a kick from the Imperial captain herself. Tullius too glared in Vidran's direction before returning his attention to Ulfric. As he fumed, Ralof began to believe the man was seriously considering a request for a stand; anything to make him eye-level with the true High King of Skyrim.

Instead, Tullius gave the guards behind Ulfric a swift, curt gesture. In an instant, they were on him, grabbing his shoulders and kicking out his knees, forcing him to kneel before the unworthy general.

He might as well have burned an effigy of Talos. The Stormcloak prisoners bellowed as one, launching themselves at the nearest soldiers with rage shining bright in their eyes. No one could disrespect their king in such a manner.

Ralof was at the forefront of the fighting, swinging his bound hands left and right. Leander squawked and ducked just as the fists soared over his head, catching an approaching Imperial right in his unprotected neck. The man went down, and for a moment, a brief, brief moment, Ralof felt hope surge through his veins. Perhaps they might actually escape.

Then came the roar so nightmarish it turned Ralof's blood to ice.

Everyone in the courtyard, be they Imperials, Stormcloaks, or citizens of Helgen, froze, their breaths catching in their throats. Fear seeped hesitantly into the air around them, though no one knew what exactly they were afraid _of_. It was shock that had floored most of them, shock and apprehension.

Some, unfortunately, were better at shaking off such emotions.

By the time Ralof recovered, two sleek blades of Imperial steel were digging into his tunic, their tips nearly drawing blood. His fellow Stormcloaks had been similarly overpowered.

Just like that, their little rebellion was over, and their lives were forfeit.

But there was still the question of that ungodly roar.

"W-What was that?" Leander stammered, his eyes jumping from Ralof to his own Imperial guard. Ralof's eyes narrowed as he recognised Hadvar at the end of the blade directed at Leander; at least he was being gentler with the Cyrodiil native than Ralof's guards were with him.

In fact, restraining the prisoner seemed to be the last thing on Hadvar's mind. Though his eyes lacked the same fear his captive's held, there was concern in his tone as he called out, "Captain?"

"I'm sure it was nothing," Tullius said dismissively, though every few minutes his eyes would flicker to the sky, scanning the clouds like a hawk. "Carry on with the executions."

"Yes, sir," the Imperial captain all but shouted. Her overzealous eagerness to follow her general's orders had cleared all uncertainty from her expression, a reassurance not quite shared by her soldiers. "The false king first, sir?"

"No." Tullius's gaze retuned to Ulfric, still unwillingly kneeling before him. The Jarl of Windhelm stared forward, unmoving, even as Tullius grabbed his chin and forced him to look towards the executioner's block. "He believes he is saving his people. Let him watch them die." He bent down, forcing eye contact with the other man as he growled, "You cannot lie to yourself forever, _Jarl_."

Anger reared its violent head, nearly sending Ralof into another flurry of shouting and punching. Only the sight of his king, so calm even as he was taunted and slandered, held him in check. If Ulfric could face his death with such dignity, Ralof must strive to do the same.

"Very well, General." The captain stepped up to the row of prisoners. "Which would you like first?"

"His most loyal. The ones who put up the most fight."

Tullius's eyes locked on Ralof; though the Stormcloak wasn't watching her, he could feel the captain's do the same. Despite himself, his breath hitched in his throat. Though he had made peace with death, comforted by Ulfric's promises that they all would have a place in Sovngarde, he could not stop his heart from pounding as he was pushed towards the executioner's block.

Until Vidran barrelled forward, all scowls and glares as he addressed the Imperial captain. "Fine, then. Let's be done with this."

The woman's gaze flitted from him to Tullius, who paused, then nodded. Before Ralof knew what was happening, he was being pulled back into the line, watching as his oldest Stormcloak companion strode towards the waiting headsman.

"Vidran . . ." The word was quiet, yet spoken with urgency as Ralof stared towards his closest friend, unable to process the sudden change in the situation. Vidran was going to . . . he was . . .

The bold Nord glanced back, winked at Ralof, before turning to shout at the nearby priestess trying to perform his last rites. "To Oblivion with you and your 'blessings'. If you won't count Talos amongst the gods, then your prayers are false, and I want nothing to do with them."

The priestess paused halfway through her 'blessings of the Eight divines'. Somewhat huffily, she stepped back, and Vidran was promptly forced to his knees before the block.

Ralof didn't know whether to laugh or sob. That was Vidran, cutting his last moments of life short just to be spiteful. The man's temper was as fiery as his hair.

"Come on, I haven't got all morning!"

Ralof bit his lip as Vidran uttered one last jab at the Imperials. No, he wouldn't cry. His friend deserved a strong audience for his death, as strong as he had been in life. Ralof would not dishonour him by turning away.

The headsman, a shadowy figure resting in the shade of a nearby tower, pushed himself up and strolled over, enormous axe held loosely in his grip. It was a monstrous thing, all black steel and jagged edges. But if the design's aim had been to strike fear into the hearts of its victims, it had failed. Vidran scowled and shouted, defiant to the very end, no hint of dread present in his eyes even as the axe swung down and—

Ralof couldn't help himself; he flinched as the blade hit flesh, cleaving through it like butter and releasing a spray of blood wide enough to grace his boots. His eyes jumped to his feet unconsciously, wide and uncomprehending as he took in the specks of scarlet dotting the fur. That . . . That was Vidran. Pieces of Vidran.

His friend was in pieces.

Ralof had faced the death of a comrade many times before, of course. But perhaps it was the overwhelming aura of hopelessness in the air, or the fact that he'd been forced to witness such a grisly demise that made this day so much worse than those past. His good friend had just been slaughtered like an animal at the hands of the Imperial bastards they'd been so confident they'd defeat.

And now, he was next.

The captain opened her mouth, surely to proclaim such, but before she could speak, a roar identical to the one before rocked the entire town of Helgen. Ralof flinched once more, nearly stumbling as the ground vibrated beneath his feet.

Whatever it was, it was louder— _closer_ —than before.

Prisoners and soldiers alike glanced around, nervousness present on every face regardless of rank. Many opened their mouths to voice their fears, but Tullius's bitch was having none of it; she had the look of a woman desperately trying not to feel unsettled by distracting herself however she could.

"Next prisoner!" she shouted, jabbing her finger at the first person her eyes landed on. "You, the one in the rags!"

Ralof had almost forgotten Leander; Leander appeared to wish he had been forgotten. His already ashen skin paled further as Hadvar lowered his blade and stepped aside, motioning for the Imperial to step forward.

"N-No, please, I'm not—"

" _I'm_ next," Ralof said, butting in without thinking. All eyes turned on him, even the hooded black pits of the executioner. Ralof forced his face to remain impassive, his heart to remain strong. He would set an example for his Stormcloak brethren, to the very end.

Time to do for Leander what Vidran had done for him.

But the Imperial captain was having none of it, forcefully dragging Leander out of line and towards the block. "No more would-be martyrs," she snapped in Ralof's direction as her charge whimpered and struggled. "This prisoner is next."

Scared as he was, Leander looked even younger than usual. Ralof couldn't let them execute this boy. "But—"

"Stay in your line, Stormcloak," an infuriatingly familiar voice spoke. Ralof turned to see Hadvar, sword out and aimed at his once-friend. "Captain's orders."

Ralof despised Hadvar at that moment, despised him with every fibre of his being, but he was also the only soldier he knew, and thus, his only hope. The Stormcloaks around him were fully prepared to die for their cause, but Leander was no part of them; his sole crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Executing him was more than unjust.

"Hadvar," Ralof hissed, trying to keep the disgust in the name to a minimum. " _Look_ at him. Let the rest of us die and you're a puppet, but let him die and _you're_ the criminal. You said it yourself, he's not on your damn list. You have no quarrel with him."

Ralof stared hard at Hadvar, driving his words deep into the man in hopes of finding the boy he once knew. And for the briefest of moments, he thought he had. Hadvar's gaze flickered from him to the block, where Leander was trembling with fear, frantically repeating his lack of affiliation with the Stormcloaks. Ralof held his breath as the Nord in front of him hesitated . . .

. . . And jabbed the tip of his sword closer to Ralof. "No tricks, _scum_ ," Hadvar snapped, not quite meeting Ralof's eye. "Captain's orders. The man dies."

To think, Ralof had believed a trace of old Hadvar remained. No—this was all new Hadvar.

Ralof _really_ hated new Hadvar.

"I-I'm not a Stormcloak," Leander babbled frantically, his quivering knees kicked out from under him. "I'm just a traveller from Cyrodiil, please, I have friends you can contact there, they can vouch for me. I have no part in Skyrim's war, g-gods, I've never even been here before! Please, you can't—"

His words ended in a shuddering gasp as the captain lay a booted foot on his back, forcing his head onto the blood-coated block. From the gagging that came from Leander, Ralof was sure the boy would hurl, but fear stopped him in his tracks as the headsman raised his axe. All Ralof heard after that was one final plea.

And then a roar like none before it rocked the very earth they stood upon.

Stormcloaks stumbled to their knees. Around them, the townsfolk screamed. The headsman had dropped his axe in shock, and was now lumbering away from Leander, racing towards the safety of the nearest tower, along with numerous Imperial soldiers.

From the ground, Ralof watched them run. He watched the air around them darken as a massive shape shadowed the land and with another deafening roar, landed atop the Imperial's tower. He watched, unable to believe his eyes, as a dragon glared down from above.

 _Gods no._

It was a creature from fairy tales, myths and legend, yet impossibly real. The scales as dark as shadows, the spine like a mountain crag, the wings as wide as a castle's keep—and those _eyes_. Red as blood, and glowing with thousand-year-old malice.

Ralof felt his heart stop in his chest. He'd faced many enemies in Skyrim, fought many monsters, but this, _this_ was the face of true evil.

Cold fear seeped into his veins. Sweat broke out across his pallid forehead. He'd been knocked to the ground by the dragon's impact, and as hard as he tried, he could not stand. His legs had turned to jelly; he was shaking almost as much as Leander.

 _Leander . . . shit!_

Ralof's head jerked up, eyes frantically searching for the boy. He always tried to save others, of course, but the need to make sure the young Imperial was safe was a stronger one than any he'd felt before. He couldn't fathom why—the boy felt . . . _necessary_ , somehow—but he'd worry about that later. Right now, he had to find—

There. Still trembling by the headsman's axe, though he'd somehow managed to stagger to his feet. The headsman himself was visible just a few paces away, crushed beneath a fallen portion of the tower.

Ralof finally stumbled to his feet, but he'd not taken a step in Leander's direction before the monstrous beast atop the tower opened its mouth once more. He expected a roar, and was instead met with a thunderous _crack!_ as the dragon . . . shouted?

Ralof had no time to comprehend the situation. Up above, the once sunny skies had become overcast, masked by roiling black clouds as ominous as the beast before them. Chancing a glance up, Ralof spotted small lights amongst the darkness, and briefly wondered if the clouds were on fire.

The first flaming meteor struck not ten feet from him.

All at once, the panic in Helgen hit the apex. Where before there had been shouting, running townsfolk were now shrieking, desperate animals, willing to push, shove, or climb over anything in their way of safety. The Imperial soldiers were frantically trying to round everyone up in an orderly fashion, but it was impossible when half of their ranks were part of the stampeding mess. As Hadvar watched, three guards raced into the nearest building after a family of terrified citizens, only for an enormous meteor to plummet straight through the roof, flattening house and humans alike. Nowhere was safe.

Except a perfect circle of land formed around Leander.

Ralof ran forward, only to dive back as a meteor hit the ground directly where he would have been. A quick glance around told him no one was having luck getting close to Leander and the dragon; likewise, every time Leander attempted to escape, a flaming rock would plunge down, deterring him from his path.

But Ralof would not leave the boy so easily—still, he felt that overwhelming need to keep Leander alive. Taking cover under the collapsed ruins of a nearby home, he forced himself to steady his breathing and remain in control of his fear. He'd simply wait for an opening in the deadly rain, then sprint forward and . . .

His train of thought disappeared, along with every other idea in his head. It felt as though his mind had shut down entirely, along with every muscle, nerve, and organ in his body. Panic had him completely paralysed as the dragon _moved_ , clawing its way down the tower with talons larger than any greatsword. Stones and mortar crumbled from the tower, sending Leander stumbling back, only to be stopped by another meteor crushing the headsman's block not a foot behind him. The boy was well and truly trapped.

Even from this distance, Ralof could see the fear in the boy's eyes as the dragon regarded him. The beast tilted its head, almost curious, as nostrils the size of gopher holes brushed against the quaking Imperial and sniffed. Then the dragon reared back, thrust its head in the air, and let out a sound unlike any Ralof had heard thus far. Short, individual roars filled with malice and mockery—the beast was _laughing_.

" _Dovahkiin."_

This time, Ralof was sure he hadn't imagined it. The dragon could _speak_ , albeit in a gravelly, barely comprehensible voice.

" _Dovahkiin. Ful mal. Ful sahlo."_

Ralof had no idea what the beast was saying, but there was something else in Leander's wide eyes besides blatant fear: understanding.

"W-What is this?" Even over the sounds of screams and impacts around him, Ralof could still hear the terrified shout of the Imperial. "What _are_ you? What do you want?"

The dragon released another bone-chilling laugh.

" _Dii laas. Hin dinok."_

Ralof was no closer to understanding what was going on, but it was impossible to miss the new surge of fear in Leander's expression. The Imperial shrieked and turned to run, tipping him off that maybe he should as well, _toward_ Leander, to help the poor boy escape. But fear kept him frozen, even as the dragon opened its mouth once more. Not to speak, but to shout.

" _YOL TOOR SHUL!"_

Time seemed to slow for Ralof. He watched Leander sprint forward, but each step seemed to take an eternity as, behind him, a wave of fire built in the dragon's throat. Ralof finally gathered the courage to rise, but he was slow, too slow. His warning cry left his mouth just as the dragon's flames left its.

The inferno burst forth, so hot that Ralof could feel it sear his skin even from this distance. With a cry, he raised his still-bound arms to protect his face and dove to the dirt as heat sizzled on his unprotected flesh. And he was a fair few feet away, too—gods, what had happened to Leander?

A gale of hot, dry wind whipped across his back. He brought his head up just in time to see the dragon take to the skies, mouth open as it cried in its strange language.

" _Faal Dovahkiin los dilon! Daar lein los Dii."_

These words chilled Ralof's blood like no others. They had been spoken differently—pridefully, with a thick aura of wicked triumph to them. And there was that strange word again; _Dovahkiin,_ the one the dragon had used when it had first spoken to Leander.

 _Leander_.

Ralof's gaze darted back to the place where he'd last seen the stranger he'd gotten to know. The Cyrodiil native who had come to Skyrim on a whim, to distance himself from his busy city life. The boy who had been wrongfully arrested, who seemed to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

All that remained of Leander Neleus now was a smoking, blackened corpse.

Ralof fell to his knees right there in the centre of Helgen's courtyard, unmoved by the meteors that crashed down around him. A small voice in the back of his head screamed for him to rise, to run, to find his comrades and escape this hell with them, but he couldn't. What was the matter with him? After all, he had seen death before, and this boy was but a stranger. He should mean nothing to Ralof.

Yet as Ralof's eyes flitted back to the roaring dragon above, he had a sinking feeling that somehow, Leander Neleus had meant a great deal to the world. And now he was gone.

* * *

 _ **Quick translation of Alduin's dialogue (which may be incorrect as I was using an online translator - corrections are welcome):**_

" _ **Dragonborn"**_

" _ **Dragonborn. So small. So weak."**_

" _ **My life. Your death."**_

" _ **The Dragonborn is dead! This world is MINE."**_

 _ **And then there's the Firebreath shout: Fire, Inferno, Sun.**_

 _ **So there we are: the first chapter of A World Torn Asunder. This actually began as a writing exercise for me to practice the high fantasy element so I might one day be able to write my own original novel, so any comments or constructive criticism is much appreciated. Especially on my descriptions, which I skimmed over in this chapter because I figured everyone knows Helgen, but really that was my excuse to leave them out because I suck at them. Damn you, descriptive language! I'll nail you down some day.**_

 _ **Anyways, once again, thank you very much for checking out this story. Next chapter might actually be up in a couple of days, if I get more time on vacation to write. If not, see you (figuratively) when I see you!**_


	2. Dawn of the Dragons

_**To anyone following my other story, you should be getting a new chapter soon as well. I just happened to be closer to finishing this one, so I figured I'd get it done first.**_

 _ **Also, thank you to everyone for the wonderful feedback on the first chapter! I honestly didn't think I would get anywhere near that amount of reviews for a first-time Skyrim writer, so a huge thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourited, followed, or simply clicked on the chapter. I hope to make your time worth it.**_

* * *

 **Dawn of the Dragons**

Far from the land of Helgen, in the foggy marshlands of Hjaalmarch, a dark-haired and fair-skinned young woman was facing an entirely different, yet not quite unconnected, calamity.

"Joric?" Idgrod the Younger, known as Id to most, shook the shoulders of her limp brother, her tone panicked and desperate. "Joric, _wake up_."

Standing above the collapsed children of the Jarl, ten-year-old Agni rocked anxiously on her heels, all thoughts of hide-and-seek banished from her mind.

"He was fine before, Id, I swear! We were just playing, honest, and then he fell, and—"

"It's one of his dreams," Id breathed, laying a hand upon her young brother's forehead and feeling the sweat that stained her palm. Joric's eyes could indeed be seen moving rapidly beneath closed lids, as often happened whenever he or Mother had a vision, but those, those happened at night! Occasionally he'd get flashes during the days, sure, but never like this. H-He was barely breathing!

 _Calm, Id. Calm._ But she could hardly restrain her frantic gasps enough to choke out, "Agni, get a guard. Or Gorm, or-or anyone who can help!"

Agni nodded and took off without another word. Id turned back to her brother, brushing the hair from his face and cradling his head in her hands. "It's going to be all right," she murmured, though her distraught tone betrayed her true thoughts. Oh, why couldn't she have the Foresight too? Then at least she might understand what was going on!

Agni returned before Id could scream in frustration and fear. Behind the child, skulking under a hood as per usual, was the gruff and reclusive wizard Falion.

Id's heart sunk. Of course Agni would have gone immediately to her adoptive father for help, but Id—along with everyone else in the town of Morthal—had never felt comfortable in the Redguard wizard's presence. But her mother trusted him, and he knew magic, which meant he had to understand the Foresight.

"C-Can you help him?" Id stammered as Falion knelt beside her. "He was running around, just fine, then suddenly he collapsed and—"

"He's having visions," Falion interrupted, laying a hand on Joric's forehead. From the way his palm glowed, Id could tell he was not just wiping off sweat as she had done.

She nodded, feeling utterly useless as she squeaked out, "I don't know what to do."

"First, we need to get him out of the muck."

The wizard's tone was condescending, as though Id should have thought of that to begin with. The girl's self-esteem shrunk even further as she realised, of course, she'd been stupid to let her brother wallow in the muddy swamp banks while she panicked over his prone form.

She murmured apologies to no one in particular. Falion rolled his eyes and slid his arms beneath the Jarl's young son. Id winced as her brother's head lolled to the side without support, but she didn't dare ask Falion to be gentler. Besides, the wizard had already set off, striding away from the marsh where the children had just been playing with Agni hot on his heels. In another moment, he was through the stone walls that marked the entrance to town, gone from sight. Id, once again, had been left behind and forgotten.

For a brief moment, she wondered for how long she could remain here in the mud before someone came looking for her. She shot the thought down almost as soon as she'd had it, however, shaking her head and hurrying to her feet. Joric was her responsibility, and she must make sure he was all right.

It was only as she ran back into the town proper that she realised how ridiculous she must look. Jarl Idgrod's daughter, future ruler of Hjaalmarch, and here she was racing across the bridge like a madwoman, dress covered in mud, hair flying wildly about. Her face turned red as guards and citizens of Morthal openly stared at her passing. She even thought she saw Aurilie and Jolinn whispering and giggling to each other atop the bathhouse porch. The older— _prettier_ —girls had always looked down on Id, Jarl's daughter or no.

Id strained her ears to hear what the women were saying as she passed, only to lose focus on the road in front of her. A large patch of mud caught her unawares; her shoe slipped right through it, sending her sprawling backwards into the dirt.

This time, Id was sure she could hear laughing from the girls and many of the other passersby. Scrambling up with as much dignity as she could muster, she set off after Falion at a fast walk, face burning as her slip played over and over again in her head.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid. No one's going to want you as Jarl if you keep this up._

Her heart twisted in shame. First her lack of Foresight, and now her lack of . . . everything. Would she never stop being a disappointment?

Fortunately for her, Falion was not planning on taking Joric to his house. Instead, he turned off the road early, striding straight for the tallest building in the town. Two towering stories of strong wood and a bright roof of thatched straw set against the dull clouds, Highmoon Hall had been Id's home since she was born and a frequent place of respite from the disdainful glares that seemed to follow her wherever she went.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Id hurried to follow Falion and Agni inside, grateful, as always, for the door she could shut on all the staring eyes.

If only her shame was so easy to block out.

"Young master Joric!" There was Gorm, her mother's Housecarl, appearing instantaneously as per usual. An expression of concern looked most out of place set against his heavy brow and hard jaw, but there he was rushing to Joric's side as if the boy were his own son. "What in Oblivion happened? Give him here, I'll—"

Falion pulled the boy away just as Gorm reached out. The Housecarl stopped before the Redguard, and the two men exchanged a glare of mutual dislike—prideful wizard on one side, intolerant Nord on the other.

"Hand over the young master at once, _mage_."

"He's to be taken directly to Idgrod. Where is she?"

" _Jarl_ Idgrod, you insolent daedra fu— . . . friend," Gorm finished with a glance at the two girls by Falion's side. Id had a feeling 'daedra _friend_ ' had not been the insult he'd been going for. "And she's indisposed. Now, give me the boy."

"You have asked so politely," Falion said drily. Though as his hood shifted, Id caught a glimpse of his eyes beneath the shadows; the ire within his dark gaze betrayed his attempt at appearing unbothered. "But I think I'll still be taking him straight to _Jarl_ Idgrod, if it's all the same to you."

"It is _not_ , you—"

"That's enough, Gorm. Let him pass."

To the right of the modest throne room, a simple wooden door had opened. Through it hobbled a pale, older woman tall of stature, but bent of back. With hair as black as a crow's crown and wrinkles carving deep ravines across her face, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone did indeed live up to her name. Yet for all her years lived, she was still the strongest woman Id knew, and to see her mother so feeble now, having to be helped along by her shorter husband just to remain upright, was more than unnerving.

"My dear." Aslfur, Id's loving father, kept a firm grip on his wife's arm, shuffling along with her even as he pleaded for her to turn back. "Please, you shouldn't be out of bed—"

"I said I'm fine, Aslfur," Idgrod the Elder said, offering her husband a grim smile as she shook her arm out of his. "My son needs me. Don't be such a worrywart; I _can_ walk by my—"

As soon as her foot hit the ground, her next step became a stumble, which nearly became a collapse, had Aslfur not leapt forward in time. Id's heart caught in her throat as she watched her mother, as fiercely independent as any Nord woman, requiring a shoulder to lean on just to keep herself upright. Joric had been bad enough, but now . . . oh gods, what was going on?

Id, being Id, could not help but moan aloud in fear, even if it meant revealing to her family once more how weak she truly was.

"I-Id . . ." The senior Idgrod's eyes flickered to those of the younger, and she raised a limp hand in a poor attempt at a casual wave. "It's nothing to worry about. Just a bit of a dizzy s-spell . . ."

Her words trailed off in a wince, face wrinkled even more than usual as the Jarl's eyes screwed shut and her brow knit painfully together.

"Iddy?" Aslfur shook his wife gently, then with increasing force as her eyes remained closed. " _Idgrod_!"

"It is . . . just the visions," the older woman gritted out, her eyes still shut as she gazed upon something the others could not see. "They are . . . _ah_ , quite s-strong today . . . But no matter, where . . . where is my son?"

Despite Aslfur's protests that Idgrod need be more concerned with her own wellbeing, Falion stepped forward and lay the boy at the Jarl's feet with surprising care. Id's mother knelt immediately, pulling an unsuspecting Aslfur with her as she placed her free hand over the young boy's eyes.

"My son," Idgrod murmured, voice hoarse and strained. "What do you see?"

There was no immediate response, but Idgrod seemed not to mind. Of course she didn't—she and Joric shared the power of the Foresight, needing no words to form a connection. Once more, no matter how selfish it was, Id felt painfully left out at the sight of her mother, brother, and even her father all huddled together in a mass on the floor while she looked on, alone.

The sensation was short-lived, drowned by other, more important ones as her younger brother let out a terrified gasp. Bolting upright, chest heaving as though he'd just withstood an army, Joric's eyes flew open, staring in horror at sights unseen before him.

"M-M-Mother?" the boy stammered, fear evident in his tone. His hands scrambled about in front of him as though he were blind to the woman kneeling right at his side.

"Shhh, my child." Immediately, Idgrod placed her hand in Joric's, a gesture that seemed to calm the boy, if only minutely. "Tell me, what do you see?"

Joric squeezed his mother's fingers tight in his trembling grip. Id's heart ached when she caught sight of tears brimming in her brother's unfocused eyes. _She_ was supposed to be the one who protected him, who watched and comforted him. But just like with everything else, she was powerless to actually do anything.

"A-A man," Joric whispered, pointing one quavering finger at a figure who wasn't there. "A man with a fire within him. A-And a fire around h-him . . . oh gods, no, this is w-wrong, this is _wrong_."

"I know," Idgrod said, her voice as hushed as her son's. Her eyes too had taken over the same faraway, unfocused look. "The blood-soaked snow tower holds no king, the World-Eater awakens—"

"And the Wheel turns," Joric continued, his words flowing eerily well in the wake of his mother's. "But upon none. No one, there-there's no one there! Only fire and death and a dragon, a huge, black dragon."

Aslfur stared from his wife to his son. Falion looked on grimly, while at his side, Agni bit her lip and gripped his hand tight. Gorm looked at a loss for words. And Id . . . Id had no idea what to do. She wanted to cry, or leave, or yell at her brother to stop scaring her so. What did he mean, a-a dragon? Was he actually seeing . . . and if this was the Foresight . . .

A scream was building in Id's throat, one that couldn't be repressed for long, but fortunately before she broke, her brother did. Letting loose a bloodcurdling wail, Joric thrashed in his mother's arms, tears streaming down his face.

"No!" he shrieked, his tone full of pain and devoid of hope. "No, no, no! It can't be, not like this! Th-The Dragonborn—"

Id's head jerked up. She of course knew the stories, same as any Nord child. The Dragonborn, master of the Thu'um, with the heart of a man and the soul of a dragon, was the ultimate warrior of Tamriel. But they had all died out with the Septim line ages ago, so what was Joric on about now? _The Dragonborn . . . what, Joric? The Dragonborn—_

"—is dead."

Every pair of eyes in the hall jumped to Idgrod Ravencrone when she spoke. Even her son looked to her—like the sun burning through thick fog, the cloudiness in Joric's eyes disappeared as his stunningly amber irises shone though.

"Y-Yes," he choked out.

Idgrod drew her son into a hug just as he burst into sobs.

For what felt like an eternity, Joric's cries were the only sound to be heard in the resonant throne room. No one else knew what to say—and really, what _could_ they say? It was the first time any of them had seen their Jarl or her son subject to such violent visions, and ones that made no sense at that. Usually, Id's mother and brother were simply good at predicting a good season for harvest, or when the marshes would flood next. This business with dragons and Dragonborns was . . . baffling.

"Idgrod," Aslfur said after a long silence broken only by Joric's sniffling. "What . . . What _was_ that?"

Id expected her mother to recover, to plaster on another one of her wise smiles and recite some proverb on patience or virtue. That was how she always dealt with troubling situations.

But not today. Today, her frown deepened, and her eyes held none of their usual brightness as she murmured, "Nothing good."

* * *

Miles away in a town on fire, Ralof was indeed dealing with "nothing good".

Flaming rocks were raining from the sky, the screams of the dead and dying were deafening in his ears, and yet all Ralof could focus on was the charred body of Leander Neleus before him. In that moment, the man known throughout the Stormcloak ranks for his perseverance and tenacity felt like giving up. The smell of scorched flesh filled his lungs, weighing him down with the scent of hopelessness. He felt he had no chance at survival now—none of them did, which was a bizarre thought because really, what could one scrawny Imperial have done against a dragon? Why did he feel like he mattered so much?

Ralof didn't know. He also didn't care. The fight had gone out of him, and he was, if not ready to accept death, at least not willing to resist it.

This was, however, not so for some of his fellows.

"Ralof! Dammit, get up!"

Hands appeared at his wrists, undoing his bonds and yanking him up none too gently. Too surprised to resist, Ralof stumbled as he found his footing and found himself staring into the face of Aldor Sweet-Salve.

The blond man was small for a Nord, and weedier too. Perhaps that was why he'd joined the Stormcloaks as a healer, rather than a warrior. Staying off the battlefield as he did, a few amongst their ranks had even labelled the quiet man as a milk-drinking coward, but as the young man dragged Ralof away with a fierce look in his eyes, the older Nord realised the rumours held no truth to them.

"I am _not_ going to die out here," the healer muttered, glaring up at the sky as though daring the dragon to attack. "And neither are you," he snapped at Ralof, who was stumbling and tripping over the uneven ground. "For the sake of the gods, pull yourself together and _run_!"

Aldor's last word was lost in the explosion that followed. A meteor plummeted down, landing no more than a foot behind them with such force, it blew them both off their feet.

Aldor cursed, struggling onto all fours before a hand was offered. This time, it was Ralof pulling the healer up, and Ralof leading the way as they sprinted through the cratered courtyard of Helgen. Leander Neleus's corpse had been forgotten as self-preservation kicked in; Ralof had a sister and a nephew and a _life_ , dammit, and he was not going to lose it today.

"The tower!" Aldor yelled behind him, just barely audible over the latest roar of the dragon.

Ralof forced himself to keep his eyes ahead, focused on the half-ruined structure and refusing to look at the beast lest he fall pack into a pit of despair. He could hear the flap of its wings, its dreaded shouts as it blew blast after blast of fire at the hapless citizens of Helgen. None of that could matter right now; all Ralof could do was run.

With a burst of speed brought on by the dragon's flying directly over their heads, Ralof and Aldor sprinted across the exposed courtyard and practically flew through the open door to Helgen's one remaining intact tower.

" _YOL TOOR_ —"

Whipping around, Ralof slammed the tower door shut just as the dragon finished its cry that had killed Leander. Even with a barrier between them, Ralof could feel the heat from the beast's cursed flames. And this door was mostly wooden—it wouldn't hold for long.

"Shit!" a higher voice than Aldor's screamed. "Shit, shit, SHIT!"

Ralof turned, only now noticing the others in the tower with him. Three of his fellow Stormcloaks had made it here as well, thanks the gods. Noris, one of the youngest and newest recruits, was the boy upright, and the boy cursing as he paced restlessly across the stone floor. He had to go out of his way to avoid Bern and Eina, who were both lying on the ground, barely aware of the newcomers. Ralof's stomach turned as he noticed the blood beneath the two of them.

Aldor was there in an instant, racing to Eina's side as she coughed up crimson spit. "Don't move," the healer murmured, sounding calmer than Ralof had thought possible for the situation they were in.

"What does it matter?" Noris all but screeched, rounding on Aldor. "She's dead anyways! We're all dead anyways! There's no way this tower will last, and then that dragon will come in here and—"

"Oi!" Bern shouted, glowering as he grabbed Noris's tunic with his uninjured arm. "Shut up, would you? Who do you think this is helping?"

"It's all right, Noris." Ralof had no idea how he could stand to be reassuring when his mind was filled with panicked screams, but here he was attempting to comfort the younger Nord. "We're not dead yet."

" _Yet_ ," the boy emphasised, brushing off Ralof's soothing pats and opting to pull his own hair out instead. "Yet, maybe, but we will be soon. Does no one realise what that is out there? A _dragon_. We are being attacked by a fucking—"

"Noris," Aldor cut in quickly. The healer rose from Eina's side and turned towards the panicking soldier, placing his hands on Noris's shoulders so the boy could not turn away. "We are going to get out of here. Trust me."

The boy was unconvinced. " _How_?" he wailed.

Aldor glanced towards the door, then to the stairs at the back of the tower. "You were a scout, right?" he said to Noris, who nodded nervously in response. "One of the best. Ulfric always spoke highly of you."

Ralof doubted Aldor had ever spoken to Ulfric personally—even he hadn't, and he was one of captains in the ranks—but the praise, even untruthful, did its work. The fear in Noris's eyes dimmed ever so slightly, and through the terrified fog, a spark of pride could be seen.

"So scout for us," Aldor said, pushing the boy towards the stairs. "Go up to the roof and analyse the situation."

And there went the short-lived pride. Noris gulped, eyes wide. "By m-myself?"

"You can do this. Just peek your head above the ramparts, then run back here to tell us what's going on. If we have the information, then we can form a plan, and then we can _escape_."

With that last word, the boy was hooked. Nodding furiously to Aldor, he took off across the tower, taking the steps two at a time as he raced upwards.

Bern raised an eyebrow as the healer began to evaluate his arm. "You really think we can come up with a plan to escape?"

"I don't know," Aldor said, poking the bloody skin and earning a wince from Bern. "But I do know I can't think at all with that boy yelling in my ear."

Bern chuckled. "I see."

His smile quickly turned to a grimace as Aldor continued to examine is arm. Ralof, not wanting to feel useless, went to Eina's side, though he lacked any sort of skills to help her.

"Hey," he said weakly, brushing her limp brown hair away from her closed eyelids. "You awake?"

Her lip quivered, then her eyes slowly opened. "Y-Yeah." She coughed, spitting up another wad of blood to join the puddle beneath her. Ralof couldn't see the site of the injury with her hands wrapped around her stomach as they were, but he knew it was bad. "But I'm s-so . . . tired . . ."

"Stay with us." He laid a hand gently on her cheek. "We still need you in the fight against the Empire."

"B-Bullshit." But she managed a small smile, and her eyelids stopped drooping down quite so much. "H-Hey, did you . . . see U-Ulfric out there?"

Ralof's blood ran cold. His dread must have been evident in his expression, for Eina trembled and murmured, "Oh, gods."

"I'm sure he's f-fine," Ralof stammered. "He is Ulfric, after all."

But truthfully, he didn't believe a word of it. Gods above, what had he been thinking? His leader had been out there, bound and gagged, and he'd been more worried about some welp of an Imperial he'd only just met. Why, why had he not searched for Ulfric, helped _him_ to the tower?

In the state he was in, he wasn't much of a comfort to Eina; it was a relief, then, when Aldor came over to take his place.

"Well, Bern's not got a broken arm, at least." The healer sighed, dropping to Eina's level. "Let's see how you're doing. Ralof?"

He was so caught up in his fear for Ulfric, he could barely answer. "Y-Yes?"

"Check on Noris, will you? He's been up there too long. If that damned kid has gotten himself killed, I swear . . ."

Ralof nodded and left Aldor to his work. Though he felt awful for it, he couldn't say he wasn't at least a bit relieved to be away from the winces and muffled cries of Eina. Knowing she was so close to death, when there was nothing he could do to help . . . it cut him deeply. As it had each time he'd been placed in a similar situation.

Would there ever come a day when his friends stopped dying?

Ralof followed the curving stone steps around the tower's walls to the second level of the building. Though the air up here lacked the stomach-turning scent of Eina's blood, it was no easier to breathe with all the dust floating around.

Ralof coughed, glancing around the level littered with broken stones and crumbled mortar. The dragon, it seemed, had gotten here before any of them, half-collapsing the tower in which they now stood. It was a wonder it had held this long at all.

Noris was not deterred, however. Across the dark, gloomy space, Ralof could just see the boy's vibrant red hair as he flung himself back and forth, lugging stones away from the collapsed staircase at the other end of the room.

"We can still get to the roof!" he shouted upon glimpsing Ralof emerging from below. "Just have to . . . ugh, move a few more of these . . . urk, rocks, and then I'll squeeze through and—"

It all happened so fast. Ralof heard the roar through the walls, so powerful it froze him in his tracks, rendering him unable to so much as warn Noris. The younger Nord was oblivious to his surroundings anyways, so focused on clearing the rubble he never heard the noise, even as it grew louder and louder and louder.

When the dragon's head smashed through the tower wall, Ralof thought his heart would give out and die right then and there.

The world dissolved into chaos, a mess of sounds and colours Ralof could barely make sense of. Seeing a dragon afar was stunning enough as was, but to have it so _close_ , barely an arm's breadth away . . . Ralof's knees turned weak at the sight. His mind couldn't even form a thought, too paralysed with fear as the beast's hate-filled eyes flickered around the room.

It noticed Noris first. The young Nord was cowering on the other side of the level, screaming for Ralof to help as the dragon turned on him. But once more, Ralof was powerless to do anything but watch as another fell victim to the flames.

It was pain that snapped him out of his frozen state. The dragon's fire was so hot, it melted away the very stones surrounding the hole it had created. Noris was reduced to nothing but blackened bones in seconds, and Ralof, even out of the line of fire, could feel blisters rise on his exposed arms as he threw them across his face. Before he knew it, he was stumbling, then falling back down the staircase he had just used, oblivious to the pain, only thinking of escaping the dragon's wrath.

Someone on the lower level gave a shout; before Ralof could trip over the last step and smash his head into the stone floor below, a body appeared behind him to break his fall.

Aldor let out a grunt as the bigger Nord plowed into him, knocking them both to the floor. Fortunately, neither had been injured—in the fall. Ralof's arms still bore horrific burns that made Aldor's jaw drop when he spotted them.

"Your skin . . ." Ever the healer, he scrambled up to take Ralof's arms in his hands, analysing the blackened flesh beneath his fingers.

Ralof winced and pulled away, stumbling back towards the steps. Thank Talos, the immediate danger was gone; the hole where the dragon's head had been was empty, and through it, Ralof could just see the beast flying off to continue terrorising Helgen. His heart filled with relief—

-and plummeted when he finally grasped exactly what he'd witnessed on the second level.

"N-Noris?" Aldor whispered, only worsening Ralof's guilt.

His desolate expression was all the answer the healer needed. Sinking to the floor beside a horror-struck Eina, Aldor buried his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

"Oh g-gods. I just sent a b-boy to his d-death."

Ralof looked around the tower, feeling hopelessness threatening to take him once more. Would it really be so bad? His three companions had already succumbed. Bern had retreated to a corner, curled around his arm, grim and resigned. Eina was on her way out, but was just conscious enough to be aware and terrified of the fact. Aldor had been keeping them all going, but even he had broken now.

They were doomed.

"No."

Ralof could not be more shocked to hear word come from his own mouth, but as soon as it did, it gave him strength. _Damn right, no. A Nord never gives up. Not without a fight._

He was getting out of here. _Alive_.

They all were.

Aldor looked up, shocked, as Ralof hauled him to his feet. "Help them," he ordered, pointing to the two injured Stormcloaks and ignoring the pain in his arms as he did so. "Get them ready to travel."

"Travel?" Bern said incredulously. "Where?"

Ralof thought back, far back. In his youth, he'd often travelled to Helgen; much of this town had been built from his family's lumber. He'd courted a girl from here, the daughter of the little hamlet's leader . . . Ingrid. Yes, Ingrid with the golden hair, the adorable dimples, and the paranoid father. It had been Dagfinn the Fearful who had ordered the construction of Helgen's keep, and who had been so overly suspicious of everyone, he'd ordered a secret escape route be built in the bowls of the building. Few knew of its existence.

Ralof was one of these few. Ingrid had told him, when they had tried to run away so many, many years ago.

He could only hope it was still there.

"To the keep!" he shouted over the sound of an explosion outside. "There's a secret tunnel that leads to a cave not too far from here. If we go out that way, we can escape the dragon!"

"And how are we supposed to make it all the way there?" Bern shot back. "Three of us are injured, and Aldor couldn't even carry Eina on his own. Face it, Ralof, we're all dead."

"No, we are _not_."

His tone cut harshly through the air, so commanding Aldor jumped to his feet, and even Bern flinched. No longer were they dealing with Ralof the Scared, Ralof the Useless, Ralof the Despairing. This was Ralof the Captain.

"I believe my rank outclasses yours, does it not?" Ralof snapped at Bern, who nodded mutely. "Then this is an _order_. We are getting out of here, and we are getting out alive. Do I make myself clear?"

Vidran, Leander, Noris, perhaps even Ulfric—it ended here. No one else was dying.

Not on his watch.


	3. Escape to the Keep

**Escape to the Keep**

No more than a few dozen metres away from Helgen's crumbling guard tower, a man who thought he couldn't be more different from Ralof was working towards the same end: saving as many lives as possible.

"Gunnar! Hold on, I'll get you out of there."

The man spoke with such confidence, standing tall and strong amidst the pandemonium; it was hard to believe he'd once been little Hadvar, the sobbing orphan. Now, he was simply Hadvar: Nord, Imperial soldier, and newfound hater of dragons.

Thank the Eight the beast wasn't close now, giving Hadvar the time he needed to heave fallen debris off the nearest half-ruined house. Another heavy wooden plank pulled away revealed old Gunnar Stone-Eye, frail arms shoving uselessly at the mess of timber across his legs.

Hadvar kicked at the boards, and when that failed, gave them a few good hacks with the sword. He would never hear the end of it from Beirand, the blacksmith who had bestowed such a fine blade upon him, but it couldn't be helped. The only thing there was to fight now was that dragon, and Hadvar doubted one puny blade, sharp or dull, could pierce its scaly hide.

Fortunately, the sword was effective against wood. With one final swing, the planks snapped, and Hadvar was able to drag them off of Gunnar. The older Nord clambered unsteadily to his feet, cautiously testing the sturdiness of each leg in turn.

"Anything broken?" Hadvar said, trying to slow his hurried tone. He didn't want to rush an old and possibly injured man—but at the same time, they were sort of in a bit of a situation.

"I think I'm fine, thanks to you. Gods bless you, boy."

 _Not of late,_ Hadvar thought, though he kept the words to himself. His bitterness would not help matters—his actions, however, would.

"Have you seen anyone else?" Hadvar asked, eyes already combing the surrounding area for waving hands or kicking legs.

All he found, however, were limp, lifeless bodies, many of them all too familiar. A number of his comrades had already fallen facing the beast; so too had many of Helgen's civilians, who Hadvar was also well-acquainted with. This was a military town, after all, and practically the only thing that put it on the map was its imposing Imperial presence. Hadvar had been here many times before on missions.

And many times before that, as a young boy . . .

He shook his head furiously. Now was not a time to be thinking of such things. Damn Ralof for showing up! It was his fault Hadvar kept getting distracted by old memories.

 _Ralof. I wonder if he—_

A high-pitched cry interrupted the thought before he had time to complete it. _Good_ , Hadvar told himself, clenching his sword tight and racing towards the source of the shout. It wouldn't do to contemplate such things while chaos reigned around him.

"That sounds like Haming!" Gunnar shouted between gasps, limping along behind Hadvar.

Haming was a seven-year-old boy, naught but a child. _Oh, gods._

"Stay behind here!" Hadvar called to Gunnar over his shoulder, gesturing to one of the few remaining intact buildings. Hopefully this one wouldn't collapse on the old man as well. "Keep your head down and don't move until I come back! I'll get the boy."

Hadvar heard no affirmation, but as the sound of ragged breathing quietened, then ceased behind him, he could only assume Gunnar had done as he'd said. He couldn't spare a glance back at the old man; from the increasingly loud screams, it sounded like Haming was in dire need of help.

Hadvar sprinted around the corner and spotted a huddled mass down the road. It was a small boy, a shock of brown hair sticking up at all angles from his head— _Haming_. He looked all right, thank the Eight. But why was he kneeling in the open street, practically asking for the dragon to attack?

"Haming!" Hadvar called, racing forward. "Haming, come on, over here!"

It was only as he neared that the haste in his tone dropped, replaced by sorrow. Now he could see why Haming had yet to move; his father, Torolf, was sprawled out on the ground before him. The man's chest still rose and fell, but as Hadvar approached, he caught the sickening scent of burnt flesh. A glance at Torolf's blackened legs told him all he needed to know. Haming's father would not be getting up any time soon.

Not that such a thing would stop Hadvar.

"Haming." The soldier reached the young boy's side and placed a hand on his shoulder. "We need to go."

"No!" Haming screeched, flinging his arms around his father's neck and holding tight. "I won't leave him, I won't!"

"I'm not asking you to," Hadvar said quickly. He was trying to keep an eye on the dragon as he spoke; every time he glanced back up from Haming, the beast seemed to have moved closer. That wasn't good. "Look, I'll carry your pa, all right? But you have to leave right now. Just around that corner is Gunnar, if you go to him—"

"I'm not leaving!" The child was sobbing now, his face buried in his father's chest. "The d-dragon already got M-Mother, it won't get Father too!"

Hadvar froze, helpless. He couldn't forcefully pull the boy away, but at the same time, they couldn't stay here.

Before he could decide what to do, however, Torolf acted. Hadvar had thought the man unconscious, but the his hands were rising, caressing his boy's cheeks softly as he whispered, "H-Haming?"

"Father!" Haming's head jerked up, cheeks pale and tear-stained. "Father, you're all right, r-right?"

"Of course." To Torolf's credit, he never once let his pain shake his voice. "But you have to do as Hadvar says, little cub. Go now, find Gunnar."

"B-B-But . . ." Haming sniffled, still refusing to let go of his father. "W-What if you get h-hurt?"

"Hadvar will take care of me. He's a big, strong man."

Torolf smiled up at Hadvar, but his eyes held only sadness. Hadvar may have been big and strong, but Torolf was bigger and stronger; there was no way the Legionnaire could carry such a hulking man by himself. Not that Hadvar would ever admit it, though deep down, he knew it was true.

"Go now, little cub." Torolf grimaced as he forced himself up, just enough to kiss Haming's forehead. "Be safe. And I love you. Always remember that."

Haming nodded, squeezing his father tight. "I love you too, Papa."

Then he was off, stumbling around fallen debris to follow Hadvar's directions. Hadvar watched him go, making sure he was safe, before he turned on Torolf.

"G-Go," the injured man urged, his agony now in full control of his expression. "You have no ch-chance lifting me. Save yourself, and my b-boy—"

He was cut off sharply by the sound of Hadvar's sword sliding into its sheath. Before Torolf could object, he was being hefted upwards by the determined soldier.

"Hadvar, s-stop." Torolf winced as his useless legs brushed against the ground, unable to support so much as a tenth of his weight. "You'll never m-make it dragging me."

"'C-Course I—urk—will."

"No, you won't." Torolf tried to push away from the smaller man, but Hadvar was determined. "Please, just save my boy."

"I'm saving both of you."

"You can't."

"I _ca_ —"

Hadvar's words were cut off by a roar ending in a resounding _boom._ Dirt flew up behind the men as the earth shook violently beneath their feet, sending the unstable pair to their knees. A hurried glance over his shoulder revealed the dragon that had landed just behind them.

Shit.

"Father!" came Haming's frantic cry. Hadvar's eyes turned forward to see the young boy rounding the corner, sprinting straight for them. Gunnar chased behind him, hands outstretched to snatch the boy away, but the old man was nowhere near fast enough.

 _Shit_.

Hadvar looked at Torolf, regret etched in every feature of his face. The older Nord simply nodded, giving him a weak shove forward.

"Save my son," he choked out, and then his words were drowned by the dragon's ear-splitting shout.

Hadvar leapt up just as flames consumed the spot where he'd once knelt. He could feel blisters growing on the back of his legs, hear Haming's heart-wrenching wail, but all he could focus on was the path in front of him as he raced just ahead of the fire. When Haming's red tunic appeared in the smoky haze, Hadvar shot out an arm and grabbed the boy, never missing a step. He snagged Gunnar the same way, and soon he was dragging both Nords around the bend, taking cover behind the row of houses with the dragon's flames nipping at their heels.

" _Damn_ ," Hadvar cursed as they flung themselves behind the makeshift barrier. His skin was stinging painfully, and he smelled of burnt leather; a glance down at his legs told him why. The hem of his cuirass had been eaten away, the remaining blackened edges reaching just below his mid-thigh. The skin beneath was as red as boiled lobsters, a consistent bright red all the way down to his boots, which had been likewise seared. He'd tear them off now if he had any alternatives.

But they still had a dangerous, debris-strewn town to cross. Hadvar pressed Gunnar and Haming close against the wall of the building as the dragon took off once more. Thank the Eight, they were safe—for the moment.

"Papa." Haming had curled himself into a ball, rocking back and forth as tears streamed down his cheeks. "Papa, papa, p-p-papa."

Hadvar's gut twisted with guilt. He'd promised to look after Torolf, only to abandon the man when aid was most needed. If he'd only moved faster, or been stronger, he could have . . .

No. Now was not the time to dwell on his failures. He could mourn Torolf later; right now, he still had two charges he had to get to safety.

"Gunnar, help Haming along," Hadvar said firmly, drawing his sword. "We're getting out of here."

The old Nord nodded and bent down to whisper something in the child's ear. Hadvar could not hear what was said, but soon Haming was stumbling to his feet despite the despair in their eyes. With all three of them up, Hadvar nodded and led the way into the fray.

They raced back down the ash-filled street where the air had been clear only moments before. Hadvar coughed, raising a hand to cover his mouth and shouting for his companions to do the same. He'd once been taught smoke could be just as dangerous as fire.

There was one blessing hidden in the smog, however. With the air practically a solid mass around them, it was impossible to see Torolf's corpse on the street. Hadvar could smell it, though, that foul stench of hot blood and charred flesh.

Or perhaps the smell was simply wafting off of him.

The air became clearer as they continued to run, until Hadvar spotted the remains of what had once been an old wooden bridge leading through an alley behind some of Helgen's richer homes. All had crumbled now, and the bridge had partially collapsed, but there was still a good spot between two stone walls that might afford them some protection. At the very least, they could hide there until Hadvar thought up a better plan.

Racing towards the collapsed bridge, Hadvar leapt the short distance to the ground and turned to help Haming down to his side. Gunnar followed, stumbling slightly when the bridge's singed planks crumbled beneath his weight, but Hadvar caught him before any damage could be done.

For the moment, they were safe.

"General Tullius, sir!"

Hadvar knew that voice. Cadmus Carmine, one of the Imperial army's best archers. _An ally, and one who's not yet dead at that. Praise the divines._

He ran down the alley until he reached the end of the line of houses, bringing him to a set of stairs. At their top indeed stood Cadmus, bow raised high as he drew and released arrow after arrow at the dragon circling in the skies.

"Cadmus!" Hadvar called, waving him over as Haming and Gunnar reached his side.

"Hadvar," replied the Imperial, as though this were a casual meeting on the street. Loosing one final arrow, Cadmus relaxed his grip on his bow and turned to face his fellow soldier, wiping one soot-stained hand across his brow. "Bloody hot out, eh?"

Hadvar nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of the question. Only Cadmus could remain so flippant at a time like this. "Aye, that may have something to do with the dragon."

"Fair bet, that. Damned beast—impossible to hit when it's flapping around. Hey, do me a favour, will you? Tell our idiot general this is a losing battle and we all need to ignore our pride and run before things get ugly."

Hadvar's heart leapt at the words. "The general, he's all right?"

"Oh, aye. Might have hit his head on one of them flaming rocks though, seeing as he thinks lobbing a couple o' twigs at a _dragon_ is gonna work." Cadmus let another arrow fly uselessly into the air, groaning as violent gales from the dragon's wings knocked the bolt off-course. "Tullius is just past this wall o' fire," he continued, jabbing his bow at the burning houses behind him. "Best to go through this house here and—"

Cadmus stopped short. His face had gone slack—jaw agape, eyes wide, cheeks drained of all colour.

Hadvar had never seen the cocksure Imperial scared before. In a split second, his cool, calm friend had disappeared; the man who stood before him now was pissing in fear.

The dragon landed moments later.

Hadvar just managed to shove Haming down before the beast descended upon the wall behind them. One enormous talon slammed into the stone where the boy's head had just been, missing him by inches. The boy cowered on the ground, quivering in Gunnar's arms as they knelt beneath the beast.

Hadvar was not so lucky. His hand had still been extended from saving Haming, and as the dragon landed, its claw carved a deep furrow into the meat of his arm. Blood poured forth in crimson rivulets, the pain nigh unbearable, but Hadvar could not allow himself to move or cry out. If the dragon became alerted to their presence, they would die.

For now, the beast had yet to notice them; its attention was focused solely on Cadmus, the unluckiest of them all. The Imperial stuttered and sobbed atop the steps, unable to so much as raise his bow to defend himself. All he could do now was mouth the names of Divines and pray they would deliver him from such a terrible fate.

Hadvar turned his head away just as the dragon let forth a fiery roar. Cadmus disappeared, engulfed by voracious flames, managing only one short cry before his body was consumed entirely.

The confident Imperial who had always seemed invincible, gone in an instant. Hadvar's eyes stung, from smoke or sadness, he could not tell. Gods, how many more had to die?

Dozens, perhaps a hundred—but Hadvar, Gunnar, and Haming were not counted among them yet. Just as Hadvar was sure the beast would turn its fire on the three, it took off, wings beating so forcefully the fires beneath were blown out. Hadvar might have counted this as a blessing, had it not been too late for Cadmus.

He refused to look at the smoking corpse as he led Haming and Gunnar up the charred stairs and through one of the ruined homes. The old man was saying something, exclaiming over Hadvar's bleeding arm, but the soldier did not stop. He _could not_ stop. If he paused for even a moment, he'd start to think about what was going on and how many people had been lost. Then he'd fall to his knees and never rise again.

One thought alone kept him going: the memory of Cadmus— _don't think about the corpse, Hadvar—_ telling him where to find General Tullius. If Hadvar could just get to his commander, everything would be all right.

It _had_ to be.

"Stand your ground, I repeat, _stand your ground_! Don't run, damn it, shoot the beast down!"

It was a voice loud and curt, one made for the battlefield. Hadvar heard it even over the sound of the dragon's roars and the meteors crashing down. His heart leapt in his throat; he'd recognise the speaker anywhere.

"General Tullius!" Hadvar kicked out at the already weakened wall of the house, creating a hole just large enough to peer through. "General Tullius, sir!"

Just past the house was one of Helgen's wide main streets, crowded with soldiers and townspeople alike. And there was the general in the centre of it all, resplendent in his golden armour somehow untouched by the soot around him. He waved his arms this way and that, commanding the legion of soldiers around him with the ferocity and confidence of a battle-hardened warrior accustomed to victory.

Yet every time the dragon passed, their ranks thinned while the beast flew away, none the worse for wear.

Hadvar had to get out there, to help. With Gunnar and Haming by his side, the three battered the wall separating them from the others until the blackened planks broke beneath their blows. Hadvar shoved the others out immediately, stepping through the hole himself just before the house's remaining supports snapped. The three Nords ran, fueled by the sounds of splintering wood and thoughts of what could have been.

Hadvar was the first to shake off their latest near-death experience, and the first to reach his commander as he sprinted across the street. "General Tullius! Sir, what can I do to help?"

The shouted commands stopped. Tullius left his other soldiers to their own devices, sparing a moment to turn his sharp eyes on the approaching man and the two civilians behind him. In the span of a single breath, he'd taken in everything: the scratches across Gunnar's arms and legs, the cleared paths from tears through the dirt on Haming's face, and the steady flow of blood still dripping from Hadvar's arm.

"You're injured, soldier!"

An obvious fact, but one Tullius believed needed to be said. Hadvar certainly didn't look like he'd realised just how severe his wound was.

And he hadn't. Sort of. Hadvar could feel the pain poking at the back of his mind, but it had been blanketed by such a thick layer of adrenaline, he felt little more than an itch.

"I'm fine, General!" he called back, raising his sword as up in the air, the dragon wheeled around, preparing for another pass at the street. "I can help!"

"That's a negative, soldier! In your state, you'd only wind up dead."

"But, sir—"

"When I give an order, I expect it to be followed. Or am I not your commanding officer?"

Hadvar swallowed the remains of his protest. "Yes, s—"

Once more was he interrupted, this time by a scream. The dragon had returned, swooping low across the street, talons extended as it flew. The soldiers let loose a barrage of magical bolts, arrows, stones, whatever had on hand, but the beast paid them no mind, gliding effortlessly past them and heading straight for the town gate.

The gigantic doors set into Helgen's towering outer wall were open, and two panicked townsfolk were currently sprinting for them as fast as they could. The scream had come from the one who had looked back to find the dragon approaching at a relentless pace. She collapsed to her knees, giving up then and there, but her companion continued on, still hoping to make it.

Hadvar started off at a run, but he'd barely gone a step before realising it was too late. The dragon's claws closed tight around the fallen woman, and moments later, the other talon snatched up the running man as well. Hadvar could see his legs still racing in place, even as he was lifted off the ground and into the air. The screams of the townsfolk filled the air, quietening as the dragon rose higher, then intensifying as they were released. The crescendo was hit just as they slammed into the street not four metres from Hadvar and the others.

"Damn it!" Tullius cursed for any soldier within earshot. "Where the hell is Captain Juno? I told her to lock the fucking gates! The damn thing picks off runners!"

"I haven't seen the captain since this all started, General," Hadvar said. His heart twisted as he realised how true the words were; how could he not have bothered to look for the woman who was his immediate superior? "And with all due respect, sir," he continued, shouting to be heard over the dragon's roar, "Keeping people locked in here won't help them anymore than running!"

"If you have any suggestions, soldier, please share them."

The words had been delivered bitterly, with sarcasm that indicated Tullius expected no reply, but they still made Hadvar think. Helgen might as well have been his second hometown when he was a boy; he knew every building inside out. Including the keep, which had once held a secret passage he'd caught Ralof and his sweetheart using so many years ago.

Hadvar had no idea if the tunnels were still there, but it was worth a shot.

"There's an exit through the basement of the keep!" Hadvar said hurriedly, earning Tullius's attention once more. The soldier plunged his hand into pouch at his belt, feeling for the keys all those regularly stationed in Helgen were given. "The doors are likely locked, but if the townspeople take my key, they could get themselves to—"

"Negative. Those keys are Imperial property, and only to be handled by Imperial soldiers." Tullius raised a hand before Hadvar could object, continuing, "You wanted to help. Now you can. Soldier, I'm putting you in charge of evacuating civilians."

"But, sir, don't you need help out here—"

"Not from an injured man. Besides—"

Another scream rent the air; one more townsman had tried running, only to be burned to a crisp by the dragon's deadly fire. Tullius gritted his teeth, in both regret and anger. Such a thing would not happen if these civilians could follow the simplest of orders.

" _Besides_ ," he continued, waving his archers over to a more open location for attacking. "Someone needs to lead those people. They're sheep without a shepherd, panicked and confused. Herd them to safety, soldier."

Hadvar could not object to that. "Yes, sir."

He turned away as the general ran off, ordering his fighters into a tighter formation. Gunnar and Haming were still behind Hadvar, catching their breath and clutching one another for comfort.

"You heard the general," Hadvar said, shething his blade and taking Haming's hand in his own. "We're getting you out of here. No one else is dying today."

With that, he pulled them off of the street, out of the throngs of Imperials still desperately trying to bring the dragon down. The townsfolk had left the soldiers to their work, choosing to gather in a huddled mass away from the fighting, in the ruins of what had once been Helgen's Temple of Arkay. There was something darkly humorous about the image; an irreverent man might have laughed.

But Hadvar did not. He ran straight to the townsfolk, dodging falling meteors and flames as the dragon made its next pass over the city. With the beast swooping so close, some of the men and women shrieked and nearly ran, but Hadvar stopped them in their tracks with a frantic cry of, "Wait!"

Heads immediately swivelled to him, as though Helgen's citizens had been dying for any sort of guidance. Which, in a way, they had.

"I need you all to listen up, all right?" Hadvar said, praying his words could penetrate the cloud of panic thick in the air. "We're going to get out of here. If you'll just—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. G-Get out of here?" A red-headed youth built like a string bean shot up from his crouched position, terrified eyes following the dragon in the sky. "How? Th-The dragon will kill us!"

"I know another way out. There's a passageway beneath the keep, it leads to a cave which lets out down the mountain, at a safe distance from the dragon. We're going to take that route."

Many still wore doubt and fear like a cloak. Hadvar's heart beat faster, ready to pound its way out of his chest. Gods damn it, he didn't have time to overcome their reluctance and win their trust!

The dragon roared again, and the townsfolk collectively jumped. They were like rabbits, skittish, ready to take off at a moment's notice. What if Hadvar couldn't keep them together?

His fears went unfounded. Even as he opened his mouth, unsure of what words he could possibly use to make the others listen, a woman stepped forward from the group, commanding the attention of those around her. She too held an aura of leadership, but it was not one seasoned by years in the army like Hadvar's. She was a plump woman, short for a Nord, with little to make her stand out in a crowd, yet the townsfolk regarded her with the respect earned by a prominent member in a relatively small community.

"He's right," the woman said, and whether it was her high, clear voice, or the way she brushed back her golden hair as she spoke, something about her resonated with Hadvar. Was she another citizen he knew? "There is a passage in the keep's dungeon—at least, there was. My family hasn't been allowed in there since the Imperials took it over." Her eyes flitted to Hadvar, some unknown emotion flickering within. "But my father was a damn good builder. It must still be there."

 _Her father?_

 _. . . Shit._

"Ingrid?" Hadvar asked, almost reluctant to hear the answer.

"Hadvar," Ralof's old sweetheart answered back. "It's been too long."

No, no it really hadn't been. Not long enough, more like.

He could have stood there all day, staring at Ingrid and cursing his luck, which had held strong after ten years of never running into her again. _Damn it, why now, of all times? First Ralof, then her—_

At Hadvar's side, Gunnar cleared his throat; the old man had been a friend to Hadvar in his youth, and he knew all too well how Ingrid and Hadvar's last day together had gone. "So . . . to the keep, then? Since, you know, there is still a dragon on our asses."

 _The dragon!_ Damn, why was Hadvar getting so distracted on today, of all days?

His eyes darted to the skies; thank the gods, they weren't in immediate danger. The beast was still tangling with the Imperial soldiers down the road, seeming to delight in allowing their ineffective attacks to crash against its impenetrable scales. It wouldn't be amused for long, however, and besides, the more time they wasted, the more lives General Tullius had to sacrifice protecting them.

"Right," Hadvar said, breaking eye contact with Ingrid and turning to address the rest of the group. "To the keep, then. Follow me, keep your heads low, and run like you've got a Daedra on your tail."

"Or a dragon," Ingrid said. "Which, oh right, we do."

All those years and she still hadn't lost her attitude. Or her ill-timed sarcasm.

Hadvar was about to reprimand her, but a new roar from the dragon resorted his priorities. Instead, he settled for a stern, fleeting look as he breezed past her, waving for the townsfolk to follow.

Together, they ran across the ruined street, flitting from building to building to avoid the dragon's wrath. Every so often, someone's courage would fail and they'd stumble their next step, but Hadvar was always there to pick them up, urging them forwards with whatever words of comfort his frenzied mind could provide. _There's no need to be afraid. I'll protect you, I promise. You'll be there soon._

Nothing more than sugar-coated lies disguised by comforting tones, yet they did their job all the same. The townspeople of Helgen always got back on their feet.

And, soon enough, Hadvar's words began to become truths. When they rounded the next corner, they were presented with a solid stone wall, which might have been a problem had the dragon not previously demolished it. Hadvar nearly cheered at their luck.

He'd later realise he really needed to re-evaluate his definition of "luck".

"I've got the key!" he shouted, pulling it from his pouch and using it to spur the townsfolk on. "Hurry, let's go!"

Cries of relief rose up from the crowd behind him as he led the way towards the far door, where all Imperial soldiers stationed in Helgen were quartered. The keep looked just as he'd last seen it, standing tall and unscathed amidst the surrounding destruction as though it was on an entirely different plane of existence. Ingrid was right; her father had built (or at least, had ordered to be built) a damn solid fort. Praise the Eight, things were finally going their way.

As soon as the thought entered Hadvar's mind, he knew he'd damned them all. The world loved its cruel ironies too much.

Their group was just reaching the door when movement drew their eyes to another collapsed portion of the surrounding wall. Hands and feet were appearing, people crawling over the stones just as the townsfolk had done only moments before.

The air became tense as Hadvar's followers shied away, fearful, but the Imperial soldier leading them had no such qualms. On the contrary, he stepped towards the new arrivals, joy piercing the veil of despair at the thought of saving more innocents from the dragon's wrath.

But then he saw the blue. Even through the soot stains and the scorch marks, the vibrant blue of a Stormcloak sash was visible on each of the new arrivals as they made their way over.

All were Nords, three men and one woman, all in varying battered states. Two of the men had resorted to carrying the woman, whose face looked milk-white beneath the dirt on her face. The fourth was leading the group just as Hadvar had with his charges, and there was something disturbingly familiar about the way he held his hands in loose fists, the way he walked on the balls of his feet, the way he tilted his head as he turned it, like a . . .

 _Shit, and shit again._

The gods were not smiling upon Hadvar today.

"Ralof," he muttered under his breath. Then louder, for his treasonous friend to hear. "What are you traitors doing here?"

Ralof's snarl matched his own as the Stormcloak stalked forward. Hadvar had his sword out, and Ralof was weaponless, yet the blond was fearless in closing the distance between them.

"Hadvar," he spat, fists now clenched tight and raised high. "Out of my way."

"And where exactly do you think you're going?"

"We're getting out of here." Ralof's eyes narrowed in hate. "And you're not stopping us this time."

Hadvar forced his mind to remain in the present, yet he could not stop his stomach from twisting at the implication behind Ralof's words. He could still remember, all too clearly, the last time they'd been in a position so similar to this.

It made him feel guilty, and sad, and mad all at once, and did nothing to help Ralof's case. "Forget it," Hadvar snapped, sword tip jabbing dangerously close to his enemy's chest. "I am escorting these citizens out of here, and I will _not_ allow you barbarians to jeopardise their safety."

"Barbarians? Oho, that's rich coming from the man who was leaping at the chance to execute us without any kind of trial!"

Anger flared in Hadvar's heart, most of it directed at himself, but it was so much easier to take the fury out on Ralof. "You know what—"

"Boys! Wrong place, really wrong time, don't you think?"

There was Ingrid again, barging her way to the front of the crowd as she'd always been fond of doing. Hadvar hated how soft Ralof's glare got when his eyes fell on her, confusion and long-lost affection overtaking hositility.

"I-Ingrid?"

The woman's brows shot up. Apparently she'd failed to recognise her old flame as well. "Ralof?"

"We don't have time for this!" Hadvar barked, tightening his grip on his sword. His other hand went to Gunnar, extending the keep's key to the old man. As Gunnar left his side to open the door, Hadvar returned his full focus to the Stormcloak before him. "We're leaving. Be glad I don't have the time to finish what General Tullius started."

"You'll have to make the time, then," Ralof growled, taking a threatening step forward. "Because we're escaping through that tunnel."

"No, _we_ —"

"This is exactly what I was talking about," Ingrid snapped, jumping into the conversation once again. She'd positioned herself firmly between the two men, glaring from one to the other, all traces of emotion for Ralof gone. "Come on, children, no one has any time for your petty squabbles!"

Both Hadvar and Ralof scoffed at that. "Petty squabbles?" Ralof echoed, offended. "Woman, have you heard nothing of the Skyrim's civil war?"

"Don't be an ass, _man_ , of course I know about the damn war. You know what I also know?" Ingrid jabbed her finger into the air, gesturing forcefully to the dragon terrorising the remaining Imperials. "That's a fucking _dragon_. Dragon trumps _everything_. We all want to live, so let's all get the hell out of here!"

Both men looked at her, faces expressing confusion they did not have time for.

"You mean . . ." Hadvar said slowly. "Together?"

The look Ingrid sent his way was not a pleasant one, but it confirmed his guess all the same.

Escaping together . . . teaming up with a Stormcloak—and Ralof at that . . . could he do it? He thought of what his general would say for even entertaining the idea, and winced at the result. Tullius would waste no time in cutting down these rebels, as would any of Hadvar's fellow soldiers—so why was he seriously considering this?

When he opened his mouth to speak, it felt as though the words were not his own. "A-All right. Fine." Over the protests from the pro-Imperial townsfolk behind him, he continued, "Look, Ingrid's right. This beast is bigger than all of us, and if we hope to escape alive, we need as many people as possible working together."

He couldn't believe what he was doing, even as he turned his gaze on Ralof. "I . . . I'm game if you are."

The Stormcloak had taken to the idea a lot less easily. "Easy to preach peace with a sword in your hand," he retorted, waving his own empty fists in Hadvar's face. "How do we know you won't kill us the moment our backs our turned?"

A flaming meteor hit the ground not two feet from where they stood; if they didn't act now, they might all die. "Look," Hadvar said, repressing years of training and Imperial propaganda to lower his blade before the Stormcloaks. "We don't have much time. You'll just have to trust—"

" _Trust_? Trust you? Hah!"

"Ralof." Hadvar couldn't stand the thought of grovelling, especially to this very man before him, but he was quickly running out of options. "Please—"

"No. You do _not_ get to speak to me as though we're children again."

"But—"

"As I recall, I asked you to listen to me earlier today, when you wanted to execute that innocent boy. You didn't heed my words then, and now he's dead because of _you_. So no, there is no reason on Nirn you could give that would make listen now."

Hadvar froze, mouth open mid-protest. Ralof waited, silently furious, for him to continue, but what more could the Imperial soldier possibly say? That was that.

But Ingrid was having none of it. Her eyes had been on the skies, and when she saw the dragon's gaze find their group, she gave a shriek half filled with impatience, half with flat-out terror, and grabbed each arguing man by their arms. Before either Hadvar or Ralof could object, they found themselves shoved through the door Gunnar had swung open, quickly followed by a mob of screaming townsfolk.

Ingrid was the last to run in, slamming the door shut behind her just as the dragon's fatal fire shout rent the air. She leapt away from the wooden beams as they started to smolder.

"O-Oh my," she said faintly, raking a hand through her sweat-soaked hair.

Beyond her, both Hadvar and Ralof were still staring, alternating their gazes between her and each other. Neither could believe they were in the same room together.

Ingrid turned towards them, and the eyes of all the others followed.

With a shaky attempt at a grin, Ingrid said, "Well, boys, it appears fate—and myself—have decreed you're going to work together on this one. So . . . what next?"

* * *

 ** _I apologise if this all seems drawn out; I really didn't think Helgen was going to take up this many chapters. I promise, after the next one, we'll be out of it. Until then, thanks for reading!_**


	4. A Most Unlikely Company

_**My sincere apologies - we'll be out of Helgen in the**_ **next _chapter. This one was getting to long to finish it up. It's a slow start, I know, but things will pick up once we're finished with this intro. Thank you for your patience, and for reading!_**

* * *

 **A Most Unlikely Company**

Helgen's barracks exemplified all that the Imperial army valued: neatness, efficiency, and patriotism. Along each side of the two identical chambers stood a dozen carefully-made beds—the perfect ratio for maximising the number of inhabitants without sacrificing the ability to move about the rooms unimpeded. Iron lanterns had been placed along the walls at similarly systematic intervals, ensuring all corners were lit, but not wastefully so. Between each pair of lights hung an Imperial banner, resplendent red set against a black as dark as night.

Such décor used to instill pride and passion in Hadvar's heart. Now, taking in the numerous insignias of the stylised dragons, he felt rather sick.

There wasn't much time to ponder the Imperial army's rather ironic choice of emblem, however. Crashes and curses alerted him to problems arising at the other end of the room, where a door had been flung wide open to reveal Helgen's small armory. This too had been organised precisely in accordance with Imperial procedures—though now protocol had been overthrown by panicked, half-crazed townsfolk.

"Wait! Hold on, now—" Hadvar winced at the sound of weapons and armour stands crashing to the ground. "Everyone, please, just calm down."

No one was listening. With a sigh, he hurried for the door, paying no mind to Ralof and the other Stormcloaks as he passed. After they'd gotten their bearings in this new environment, Hadvar had feared the rebels would go straight for the weapons and destroy their tentative alliance. However, the three men had been much more concerned with breaking down one of the bedframes to build a makeshift pallet for their injured companion.

 _And thank the gods for that,_ Hadvar thought as he rushed through the armory door. He could only rein in one group of people at a time.

The townsfolk had thrown the room into complete disarray. Armour had been tossed aside, weapons littered the floor as fatal tripping hazards—everyone wanted the best gear to defend themselves, without knowing a thing about the equipment they handled. Hadvar saw children running around in helmets twice as big as their heads, while just a few feet from him, one woman was resolute in her attempt to force on a breastplate clearly meant for a man.

Hadvar raised two fingers to his lips and gave a long, sharp whistle. The clamour in the room died abruptly as eyes darted to him.

"Listen up, everyone," he began, trying to sound as commanding as he could. A difficult task with his adrenaline fading, the increasing pain reminding him just how badly he'd been injured earlier. "We don't know how long this place will hold up against that dragon, so we do this quick and we do this right. First off, men's armour to the left, women's to the right. Don't pick the steel stuff unless you know you're strong enough to handle it. Strips for adjusting the fit are located inside the armour, on the . . ."

He trailed off, realising there were naught but confused expressions in his audience. With a sigh, he waved over the nearest woman who'd been having difficulties. "You, over here, please. We're going to demonstrate this, and only once, so everyone, pay attention."

And they did, watching with a fierce concentration borne of a desperate need to survive. Hadvar's voice echoed across the silent armory, too loud for his comfort; he wasn't used to people hanging on to his each and every word. Usually, it was _he_ who followed orders, ever the soldier, never the leader.

But General Tullius needed someone to command these people, and so Hadvar would command—or at least, give it his best attempt.

"Now, be sure you don't drop the threads hanging from the eyelets—yes, those brass loops at the front. You'll need them to lace your armour up, just like—"

"For the love of Talos, could you not move any faster?"

Hadvar froze mid-demonstration, glancing over his shoulder to find Ralof leaning against the doorframe. His arms were lazily crossed, eyes twinkling in the torchlight like pools of mirth—Hadvar's blood boiled just looking at him. Ten years and Ralof had still not outgrown his childish ego.

"Oh, but I forgot," said man continued, a humorless smirk playing on his lips. "Our lives always come second to following Imperial protocol."

Hadvar bristled. "That is _not_ true."

"I suppose it isn't. After all, it's not Imperial protocol to execute prisoners without a fair trial, is it?"

Damn it, he was still on about that? The decisions of his superiors were already bothering Hadvar enough without Ralof constantly bringing them up. "Look, I—"

"Hey, you know what, you four should put on some armour as well!"

There was Ingrid, interrupting _again_ , shouldering her way past Hadvar as though he were not present. If Ralof made him angry, Ingrid made him furious, but he had to put up with her—Tullius's orders. Orders that did not encompass the Stormcloaks before him.

Stormcloaks who were quickly exhausting Hadvar's tolerance. Ralof took one look at the Legionnaire outfits and spat at the wall on which they hung. "Better to die in Ulfric's colours than live in puppets' garb," he sneered.

But the venom in his words was weak, lacking true malice. Hadvar could see it in Ralof's expression as the man glanced over his shoulder at his comrades: he was worried. The Stormcloaks had taken quite the beating out in the courtyard, and looked terribly unprepared for another. Ralof's arms were blistered and exposed without gauntlets; his men behind him wore armour torn and burned; and clearly the flimsy Stormcloak cuirass had done nothing to protect the woman on the pallet. Still, dignity would prevent them from taking anything in the armory.

At least, so Hadvar thought, having known Ralof to have a particularly stubborn sense of pride. The Imperial was then surprised to find his childhood friend grudgingly move towards the nearest rack of weapons, muttering something under his breath about "but steel is steel, even if it's got the Empire's damn dragon on it."

The high-pitched _shiiiing_ of a sword drawn from its scabbard screeched through the air. Ralof froze, his reaching hand inches from a blade's hilt. Another blocked his path, keen steel hovering menacingly before his extended fingers.

The murmurs of the townsfolk and the rustling of donned armour ceased immediately. Everyone focused on Ralof and Hadvar.

The latter bore an expression of icy rage, his tone as sharp as the sword he held. "Don't even think about it."

If Hadvar's anger was cold, then Ralof's was hot, all blazing eyes and raised voice. "And here I was thinking we were in this _together_ ," he spat, glaring at Hadvar. "Or aren't we supposed to trust each other?"

The eyes of all who watched flicked back to Hadvar, awaiting his response, but the Imperial soldier had none. His mouth was dry, his palms wet; he licked his lips nervously, previous anger dissipating. Ralof . . . Ralof was right. He'd demanded the man's trust, back when he was the only one with the weapon, and the Stormcloak had, albeit reluctantly, given it to him. But he was a man of the Empire—of course he was honourable. Ralof and his band of rebels, on the other hand . . .

Hadvar sighed, warily withdrawing his sword. He could not stop the Stormcloaks from arming themselves without a fight, one for which they had no time to spare. Besides—though Hadvar hated to rely on sworn enemies—if the need for blades did arrive, Ulfric's boys were some of the few who knew how to wield them.

"But don't get any ideas," Hadvar snapped, his sword lowered but not sheathed as Ralof handed weapons back to his fellows. "I'll be watching you."

"And I you," Ralof retorted, testing the weight of the blade in his hands. "Gods, this steel is weak. Don't you people have any axes lying around here?"

 _Barbarians' weapons,_ Hadvar wanted to say, but it wasn't worth continuing their spat. The walls of the keep were trembling, streams of dust falling from the ceiling and into the torchlight. They had to move.

"It won't be safe here for long. We've got to get to the basement. Come on!" Hadvar shouted, waving his hand at the townsfolk and purposefully ignoring the Stormcloaks. "If your armour doesn't fit right, we'll fix it on the way. Move, now!"

He almost tagged on a "please", but caught himself at the last moment. A leader had to give men orders, not beseeching requests.

Helgen's townspeople, as it turned out, responded much better to firm instruction. With a direction presented to them, they moved as one, frantic but not panicked, as orderly as Hadvar could hope for. The Stormcloaks rolled their eyes and did their best to belittle his commands, but that did not stop them from following Hadvar out of the armoury and into a hall leading away from the barracks.

The stone walls of the keep were thick, but not quite enough to keep out the tumult still raging in the courtyard. Hadvar could hear the impact of rocks driving into the ground, houses collapsing, even the faint sounds of screams from the dying. And always, always present were the dragon's horrid shouts, muted and incoherent, yet no less bone-chilling.

Haming, clutching tight to Gunnar's hand, was the first to begin crying. The other children soon followed suit, joined even by some of the older men and women as they staggered through the keep's dark corridors.

"Just keep going," Hadvar urged, turning back to offer an attempt at a reassuring expression. "I promise, we'll be out of this soon. Around this next corner, through the third door on the left, and we'll be in the main hall. There's a set of stairs there, leading down to the cellars."

"It's the fourth door on the left, actually," Ingrid said at his side, attempting to smirk through her own misty eyes. "You sure you should be leading us, Hadvar? You never spent much time here, as I recall. Perhaps Ralof or I—"

"My uncle came here often enough to do business with your father," Hadvar grumbled, determinedly forging ahead. "I know my way around just fine."

As it turned out, Ingrid's guidance was not necessary. The main hall was indeed accessible through the fourth door, not the third, but Hadvar would have gone through it of his own accord due to the noises of battle that came from within.

Waving a hand to stop those behind him, Hadvar made his own way towards the door, peering cautiously through the open crack before barreling into the room. That was his captain fighting in there!

The Imperial woman Tullius had so missed in the courtyard was indeed weaving about the keep's main hall, locked in combat with a man in blue swinging a warhammer wildly about. On the far side of the foyer, Captain Juno's second-in-command, Fidelis Hymen, could be seen, he too sparring with a Stormcloak. There was already a rebel bleeding out on the room's threadbare rug, but the defeat of one opponent had done little for the Imperials. As Hadvar watched, Fidelis received a nasty cut across the inside of his elbow, while his captain had her feet knocked out from under her. If Hadvar didn't step in soon, more of his people were going to die.

"Wait!" he shouted, leaping into the fray.

When the Stormcloaks bristled, weapons turning on him, he made a split-second decision and dropped his own sword. If nothing else, it confused the rebels enough to pause their attacks.

"Wait, please." Hadvar took a deep breath and raised his hands, a placating gesture of surrender. "We're not your enemies."

The Stormcloaks glanced at each other. Then, the nearest soldier spat at Hadvar's feet. "Really? Because last I checked, men and women in your colours were out there killing my friends."

The rebel's hammer rose. Hadvar's heart sunk. But just as he was calculating how quickly he could dive for his own weapon, the man before him stopped mid-attack, eyes widening at something over Hadvar's shoulder.

"R-Ralof?"

"Kvasir!"

All of a sudden, Hadvar was being shoved out of the way as two hundred pounds of Nord knocked against his shoulder. Ralof paid him no heed, eyes only for his comrade as the two met and embraced.

"And Marta." Ralof beamed in the female Stormcloak's direction. She smiled and nodded in return, though the expressions of all three rebels grew grim as Ralof took in their kinsman lying limp on the rug.

"Gunjar . . ." Ralof knelt before the dead Stormcloak, fingers skimming over the man's cold flesh. "What happened?"

"This bitch," Kvasir snarled in the Imperial captain's direction.

Just like that, the atmosphere of a fight returned to the hall. The tension was so thick, one could choke on it, but nothing was stopping Captain Juno from reasserting control.

"Traitorous bastards!" she shrieked, clambering to her feet and brandishing her sword menacingly before the Stormcloaks. Hadvar tried to calm her with a hand on her shoulder, but even that set her off. "And you!" she barked, rounding on him. "What in Oblivion do you think you're doing, surrendering to these heathens? You're supposed to be a soldier, damn it, not a coward!"

"We don't have to fight them, captain" Hadvar assured her, swallowing the lump in his throat as Juno glared up at him. Her eyes had always been dark, but now they were pitch black, pits of shadow set in a ghost-white dish. "Er, what I mean to say is, with all due respect, ma'am, is the dragon out there not . . . well, a bit more of a problem?"

Juno tensed, spine ramrod straight; Hadvar doubted she'd heard anything after "dragon".

Suddenly, she leapt at Hadvar, grabbing him by his leather cuirass and dragging him down to her level. Juno was tiny, even for an Imperial, but her disproportionate strength combined with the surprise assault had Hadvar nearly stumbling to his knees.

"C-Captain?"

Her breath was hot on his face; it smelled of blood, and rot, and fear. "You have a skeleton key for the keep, don't you, soldier?"

"I, er—"

"Damn it, Hadvar, where's your _key_?"

"I've got it here," came a quiet, but firm voice from behind them. Both Hadvar and his captain looked over to see Gunnar entering the hall, the keep's key held up in his hand. Behind him, the heads of curious townsfolk peeked through the open door

"And I'd appreciate it," the old man continued, his one working eye narrowed at Juno, "If you'd release the boy first."

Hadvar didn't have the strength to object to being spoken of like a child. Truth be told, he was just relieved when Juno did release her grip on him; captain or no, the woman's temper had always unnerved Hadvar. The added panic of the situation only made her behaviour more alarming.

" _There_ ," Juno growled, turning her attention on Gunnar and thrusting her palm out. "Now give me the key."

Gunnar made no move to do so. "Indulge a curious old man first, if you will. Why are you not out fighting with the other Imperials?"

"I don't have to deal with your nonsense, you insolent—"

The captain was cut off by one of Ralof's Stormcloak friends, snorting on the other side of the room.

"This craven? Fight?" Kvasir sneered at Juno. "I saw her run straight for the keep as soon as the dragon attacked. Practically pissing herself, she was."

The Imperial captain rounded on him, uttering a guttural snarl, but Hadvar stopped her with a hand on her shoulder before she could do anything drastic. His mind, taken apart and reordered by years of Imperial propaganda, told him to let her go and teach the insulting Stormcloak a lesson. His heart, however, could not get past Kvasir's words.

"Captain," Hadvar said slowly. "Why . . . Why weren't you out helping General Tullius?"

He looked into her eyes, hoping to see the compassionate and loyal protector he'd always been taught Imperials were. Instead, he saw only rage, and fear, and madness.

Before anyone could react, Juno lashed out, kicking Hadvar onto his back with one solid blow to his stomach. His wounded arm hit the ground so hard his vision went black, fiery pain erupting across his flesh. By the time his eyes refocused, Juno had already turned away, advancing on Gunnar with her sword swinging out before her.

"I don't answer to you—I don't answer to any of you!" she shrieked, blade slicing through the air.

She'd gone mad, willing to cut off an old man's hand just to grab the key he was holding. Gunnar's eyes widened; he dodged once, twice, before the metal bit deep into his forearm. Over his cry of pain, Juno continued to scream.

"Now give. Me. That. KEY!"

Her next strike was poised to take off Gunnar's head. Hadvar gave a shout—a warning for Gunnar, or a plead to his captain, he could not say. His ears heard nothing but the pounding of his pulse and the throbbing agony in his arm, holding him back from saving his charge. He could do nothing to stop the next attack.

Juno's sword swung back, preparing to end the old man's life. Then, the Imperial Captain froze. Her sword clattered to the ground. With a deeper, louder _thump_ , her body soon followed.

Stuck in her back, driven so deep naught but the handle could be seen, was an iron axe.

(0)(0)(0)(0)(0)

Ralof held the second of his dead comrade's weapons, thanking Gunjar in his mind and praying once more for his swift travel to Sovngarde. "This was for you," he murmured, then turned his gaze on the captain's corpse and spat. Saliva mingled with blood on the floor of the hall.

"Good riddance," he muttered.

Out the door, one of the townsfolk screamed. Nearly forgotten at the far end of the room, the Imperial second-in-command, gasped.

"Y-You killed her." His rat-like features shifted between anger and fear. "You bastard!"

Kvasir and Marta moved in on him, but Ralof raised a hand for them to stop. As happy as he should have been to see a high-ranking Imperial officer with his weapon in her back, today he felt only numb at the prospect of yet another death. The dragon's carnage had affected him like that of no battle ever had.

So he turned his gaze on Hadvar, struggling to his feet and nursing his bleeding arm. It was up to the Nord-turned-Imperial then, though Ralof sneered at the thought. Whatever his problems with the man before him, Hadvar had become the leader for the Imperial presence in their group. If he wanted to fight over the death of his captain, they would fight, and Ralof would not hesitate to strike him down. But if he was reasonable, he would see that the Imperial bitch had held no more honour than the supposed "traitors" she scorned so much. Her murder left little to mourn.

Ralof saw all these thoughts flash across Hadvar's face as he took in the sight of the captain, the injured old man, and red-faced second-in-command. His eyes then went to his sword, and Ralof tensed in anticipation, but the Legionnaire simply grabbed the blade and slid it back in his sheath.

"Right," he muttered, not looking at Ralof as he shouldered past to help Gunnar up. "We keep moving."

"Keep moving?" the other Legionnaire repeated incredulously. "Keep moving?! These rebel dogs just killed your captain, soldier! And you'd dishonour her memory by working _with_ them?"

"Yes," Hadvar snapped, though his tone was weaker than he'd likely intended. His next words were heralded by a great sigh before he murmured, "Fidelis, she was going to kill an innocent man."

"A man not following Imperial orders!" Fidelis scoffed. "Hardly innocent."

Blood boiled in Ralof's veins. "Is that so?" he growled, storming right up to the weedy soldier and glaring down at him. "Tell me, was your captain following Imperial orders when she ran from the battle?"

Fidelis opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again; he resembled less a rat now, and more a fish. No sound ever passed his lips, however, save a strangled squeak as Ralof took a step closer.

"Enough."

Ralof glowered at the sound of Hadvar's voice, turning his furious gaze on the other Legionnaire as he hobbled closer. Before he could insult the Imperial for even _thinking_ to give him an order, however, Hadvar reached Fidelis's side and began to speak.

"It's not your fault for following her orders," he said as the nervous soldier's eyes leapt to him. "You can still come with us."

"With _Stormcloaks_?"

"You have family in Whiterun, don't you? What if General Tullius can't kill the dragon, and it goes there next?"

Fidelis froze mid-nod, eyes widening.

"Unprepared, they'd be doomed, just like Helgen. Someone has to spread the word, and we have a better chance of getting at least one person out of here alive if we all work together. Stormcloak, Imperial, that can't matter right now. Come with us." Hadvar clasped the man's hand with his uninjured one. "Please."

Hesitation hung in the air as Fidelis's eyes darted from Hadvar to the Stormcloaks. Ralof tensed, half-expecting the man to snap like his captain and attack, but the second-in-command simply sighed.

"A-All right. By the Eight, this is madness, but I'll join you."

Hadvar breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Now let's go."

It took some convincing to urge the townsfolk out into the main hall. Where once there had been wary glances were now panicked stares directed at Ralof as he wrenched his other axe out of the Imperial captain's back. A few men and women had taken off as soon as he'd made the kill, consumed by fear of the Stormcloaks and racing back the way they'd come. Hadvar made for the door, determined to search for them, but Ralof yanked him back none too gently.

"We don't have time," he growled. "They'd only slow us down."

Hadvar sent him a murderous look in response, but his expression became crestfallen the moment he turned away. Quietly, as though ashamed, he asked requested the key from Gunnar and set to unlocking the gate barring them from the steps to the basement. One woman stepped forward from the crowd, pleading with him to go find her husband who'd run off, but Hadvar ignored her. Eventually, she too fell silent, throwing distressed looks towards the door they'd just come through, but making no move to follow her spouse.

Things were easier once they'd got the door unlocked; the townspeople could focus their attention on following Hadvar rather than their grief. Down the stairs and then through a series of dark corridors went their little party, Hadvar at the front, Ralof hanging back to make sure Aldor and Bern could navigate all right while carrying Eina on her pallet.

"We're fine," Bern grunted, though he struggled and winced with his injured arm. "Just keep an eye on those Imperials. I don't trust 'em."

"Aye."

Fortunately, there were only two Legionnaires compared to the Stormcloak's new total of six. Kvasir and Marta shadowed Fidelis, hands never far from their weapons. Ralof in turn kept an eye on Hadvar, but it became more and more evident he wouldn't be trying anything as their pace through the keep continued to slow.

"I've seen slugs move with more vigor," Ralof jeered, shouldering aside some of the townsfolk to reach Hadvar's side. "Feeling a bit under the weather, are we? Need to take a break?"

He glanced to the man beside him, and his next quip died on his lips. Hadvar looked even worse up close. His skin was pale, his shoulders hunched, and his breaths came in short, ragged gasps. The steady trickle of blood from his arm had not stopped even with the rag he'd died around the wound. It was a miracle he hadn't passed out yet.

Perhaps Hadvar realised this too, for he pulled the handle on the next door they came to and ushered everyone inside. It was a pantry, dank and dark, with most of the space taken up by barrels and crates of partially-rotten produce. Meat hung from racks on the walls, a dark cloud of flies hovering above each slab.

"Short rest here," Hadvar said over the disgusted protests of the townsfolk. "I know it's not pretty, but we need to find anything edible and pack it with us. If we do make it out of here, it's a three-day walk to the nearest village, and that'll only be more uncomfortable on empty stomachs."

Hadvar's eyes met Ralof's, and surely in that moment, they were both thinking the same. The nearest village to Helgen was Riverwood, the cozy little hamlet where they'd both been raised. It had been ten years since they'd last been there together.

"Ralof," Hadvar said, jerking the Stormcloak out of his memories. "I need to speak with you. Privately," he added, when Kvasir and Marta stepped forward, weapons already half-drawn.

"It's fine," Ralof said before either of his comrades could spit out an insult. "Look at him, he's practically keeling over. I can handle one milk-drinker on my own."

The Stormcloaks guffawed at that, but Hadvar never rose to the bait, or gave any indication he'd even heard Ralof's words. He must have been feeling even worse than he looked.

Not that Ralof cared. This was the man who had betrayed him so many years ago—any pain he felt was well-deserved. Ralof made sure his old "friend" could see this opinion clearly in the sneer on his face as the two of them made their way out of the room.

The door had hardly shut behind them before Ralof began, "Before you say it, no, I'm not sorry I killed your captain, and no, I won't be giving you a damn apology. If anything, you should be thanking me for—"

"How well do you know the other Stormcloaks?"

Ralof's brow furrowed. Of all the reasons Hadvar could have dragged him out here, this question wasn't one he'd been expecting. "Excuse me?"

Hadvar sighed—or it might have just been another wheezing breath. "How well do you know them?"

"Why do you care?"

" _Ralof_." Hadvar's tone was not angry, or frustrated, but wearier than Ralof had ever heard it. "Just answer the question. Please."

He was just about to crack some line about the Imperial soldier begging, but Hadvar's expression made him pause. The Imperial soldier looked so tired. Such a thing shouldn't have mattered to Ralof, yet when he did open his mouth, what came out was neither an insult nor an argument.

"Well enough. Kvasir is one of my men, and we've worked with the others on a number of missions."

"So they listen to you?"

"Most of the time. We Stormcloaks tend to value free thinking over blind loyalty, unlike a certain Legion I know."

"Ralof, this is _important_."

"What is?" His eyes narrowed. "And why the sudden interest in my men?"

Hadvar leaned back against the corridor wall, arm hanging limply at his side. He wouldn't meet Ralof's gaze; the first indicator that something was wrong.

"Down the next flight of stairs, there's . . ." Hadvar bit his lip, feet shuffling nervously on the stone floor. "Well, you're going to see something you won't like. I need you to keep your men in line, or this could all end in a bloody mess and none of us will be getting out of here alive. All right?"

The Legionnaire glanced tentatively up at the Stormcloak, quailing beneath the stone cold glare Ralof gave him in return.

"What are we going to find in the basement?"

"Ralof—"

"Stormcloaks!" Ralof slammed the door to the pantry open, making Hadvar and everyone within jump. "We're leaving."

"Ralof, wait—"

But the Stormcloaks were already on their way down the hall. Behind him, Ralof could hear Hadvar trying to assemble the townsfolk, but too slow to catch up to them. Good. To see Hadvar so anxious after matching Ralof's rage for so long spawned a sickening feeling in the Stormcloak's gut. He had no idea what he would find in the basement of the keep, but he had a feeling he might not be able to control his actions when he came across it.

The next set of stairs were once more barred by a locked gate, this one even more secure than the last, but Ralof was not waiting for Hadvar to catch up with the key. Together, he, Marta, and Kvasir kicked at the door, fur boots thumping again and again against the metal until Kvasir thought to unstrap his war hammer. A few well-aimed blows and the lock crumpled.

Ralof could hear Hadvar calling after them, but he paid the shouts no heed, focusing his attention on helping Bern and Aldor ease the pallet down another set of stairs. With Kvasir and Marta's help, the five of them succeeded in getting Eina to Helgen's lowest floor safely. The Imperials and the townsfolk were almost upon them, but still Ralof forged ahead, rounding the corner and setting his sights on what had Hadvar so worried.

The other Stormcloaks followed when they heard his gasp. Just as he had done, they came around the bend and froze in place.

Ralof barely noticed them. His lungs wouldn't work, his knees felt weak, his stomach was twisting nauseously beneath his flesh. He thought he might vomit. Or scream.

The chamber that stretched out before them was vast, about the size of the barracks, but instead of beds, there were cages. Men and women filled each one, their blood seeping through cracks in the rusted metal; whether they were unconscious or dead, Ralof couldn't say. Only one stirred at their entrance, a man garbed in the torn and stained remains of a mage's robe.

"H-Help," he croaked, weak fingers clutching at the bars of his cage to drag himself to his knees. More blood leaked from his chest; from one of his legs, Ralof could see a bone protruding. "Oh g-gods, please help."

Ralof couldn't—he couldn't even move. His eyes continued to roam across the room, each new horror sending a shudder up his spine. The racks upon racks of knives, axes, and hammers. The burning brazier in the corner, iron pokers heating in the coals. The chains that hung between the two pillars in the centre of the room, currently keeping a man suspended in place.

Ralof took in what patches of the victim's straw-blond could be seen through the blood, and what little features of his face that could be made out. His stomach flipped.

 _Gods, no._

"P-Pétr?" Then louder, as he ran towards the man strung up like a pheasant. "Pétr!"

Ralof didn't want to believe it, but as he got closer, there was no denying it. This was indeed Pétr Sunny-Sword, a well-known captain throughout the Stormcloak ranks who had earned his name for the gleaming Dwarven blade he'd inherited from his father and for his unfailingly bright disposition. Yet now, his ever-present smile had vanished, replaced by an agonised grimace that twitched even in unconsciousness.

Ralof had known Pétr and his men well. Their squadrons had often been sent on missions together, until Ulfric had separated them to spread his forces more evenly. Pétr's team had been sent to Ivarstead, to keep an eye on the border between the Stormcloak-controlled Rift and the Imperial-controlled hold of Falkreath. Ralof had remained in Windhelm at Jarl Ulfric's behest, and it was here he'd been when the true High King had received an important letter written in Pétr's handwriting and stamped with his seal. None but Ulfric's right hand had been privy to the contents of the message, but they had received orders to escort the Jarl to Ivarstead immediately. Apparently, something important awaited the Jarl at the small hamlet.

They'd never made it that far. The Imperials had launched their ambush before they'd even come within sight of Lake Geir. Ralof had wondered on their long trip to Helgen if Pétr and his men had still been waiting for them back in Ivarstead. Now, he knew exactly why the General Tullius's "coincidental" ambush had worked so flawlessly.

Not that Pétr would ever have worked willingly with the Imperials, a fact made all too clear by the state he was in.

"Gods above," Ralof murmured as he reached his comrade's side. The captured captain had been relieved of his Stormcloak cuirass and dressed in threadbare breeches so old and torn, all that kept them on in places was the sticky coating of blood plastering the fabric to Pétr's emaciated body. Talos save him, there was so much blood. There wasn't an inch of unpierced skin across the rebel's chest; jagged wounds from whips and blades alike crisscrossed his chest in an unsettlingly artistic fashion, scarred or scabbed or dripping freshness.

Fury lit a fire in Ralof's heart. Someone had just been here—someone had just been torturing his friend.

No sooner had he had the thought than a series of gasps arose from the Stormcloaks behind him. Before Ralof could so much as turn, the cool touch of steel grazed the back of his neck.

"Well, well, well," a slimy voice oozed in his ear. "What have we here?"


End file.
